Deduce About His Heart
by starrysummernights
Summary: Sequel to "The Chemistry Is Incredibly Simple and Very Destructive." John and Sherlock are now dating but they must navigate the sometimes treacherous beginnings of a new romantic relationship. Can their love survive? Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello and thanks for reading! This is the sequel to my other story "The Chemistry Is Incredibly Simple and Very Destructive." I got such an amazing response from everyone for that story that I thought I would continue. Props go to Akuma_River over on AO3 for inspiring me to write a sequel in the first place and giving me some awesome writing ideas. She's great! :) **

**If you haven't read "The Chemistry" I would highly recommend you do so before reading this because references will be made to events that took place in that story. I suppose you could read this without reading the other first but you may not get some things. :)**

**Please read and review! :D**

* * *

The blue police car lights strobed through the darkness, casting the large drifts of snow about the crime scene into alternating colors of glittering white and blue. Headlights from the same cars cut through the darkness, illuminating the stark crime scene that consisted of one dead body and almost twenty live ones, all waiting on Sherlock Holmes to finish his deductions so they could move in and begin the "official" investigation.

John, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, nodded his head noncommittally to whatever Lestrade was saying, trying to block out the rest of the officers who were on-site and who kept sneaking glances over at him. He stood beside the detective inspector a few yards from the crime scene, the large brick house behind them covered in snow, giving it the appearance of a gingerbread house, and braced himself against the harsh winter wind that blew icy, wet snowflakes into his face. He shivered, wanting Sherlock to hurry the fuck up so he could get away from everyone's stares. Not that he was really bothered by them because he wasn't…but in a way he was.

"So…you and Sherlock, huh?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause, an awkward throat clearing then, "That's…great."

"Yeah."

"I mean, really _unexpected_ but, well…" Lestrade trailed off and shuffled his feet awkwardly. "You always seemed so…straight."

John shrugged and shifted from foot to foot, not liking how everyone kept looking over at him with knowing smiles and eyes that traveled from head to foot, obviously trying to work out if he were top or bottom in the relationship. Probably bottom since he was so short. He wasn't ashamed that he and Sherlock were now together…but the looks he was getting made him want to-

"So…it was pretty abrupt?"

"Not really." John said curtly, wishing Lestrade would pick a different subject. He should be doing his job, John thought savagely, considering there's a dead body on the ground not wondering about mine and Sherlock's love life.

"Not that I'm complaining." Lestrade grinned. "My money was on you two, mate."

"What?" John tore his eyes away from looking vacantly into the distance, pretending he didn't notice the way Donovan was leering at him, and stared at Lestrade. "Your money-?"

"Yeah, we all had a betting pool down at the Yard. Whether or not you and Sherlock'd make it official or keep it friendly. There were some pretty angry people the day Sherlock-"

John finally snapped and strode away from Lestrade, his hands balled into fists at his side, and over to Sherlock who was hunched over the body, his nose disgustingly close to the frozen and partially decayed flesh. John stamped his feet to regain feeling and cleared his throat. He was ignored.

"Anything?"

"Mmm, many things."

John waited for more information and when none was obviously coming, glanced around the crime scene. As his eyes made the sweep, close to twenty heads turned away in synchronization, pretending to look somewhere else besides him and Sherlock.

"We have an audience." John said, his voice low so only Sherlock could hear. Sherlock, though, did not look up from his examination. He flicked his magnifier out and peered closer at the body, inspecting a blackened fingernail on an otherwise perfectly manicured hand.

"_And_?"

John huffed and shook his head. "I _really_ wish you'd chosen a less obvious way of letting everyone know we're together. "

"Oh, please, it was quick."

"Quick?" John licked his lips. "Who describes telling everyone they're in a relationship as 'quick'? It's not like ripping off a bandage, Sherlock."

"As I'm aware, John. Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled, standing up abruptly and peeling off his plastic gloves. He tossed them carelessly in a bag and gave John a knowing look before his eyes dropped to the scarf wrapped tightly around John's neck. He smiled- John blushed and looked away- then turned to Lestrade.

"What've you got?"

"The woman was obviously killed before the snow fell- at least two days ago judging by the rate of decomposition before she froze as well as-"

John missed the rest of Sherlock's deductions when, glancing shiftily around the assembled officers again, he saw Donovan, her eyes trained on Sherlock, whisper something to Anderson who grinned and looked over at them.

"Wonder which one takes it up the arse?"

Anderson's voice had been pitched low and not shouted but it nevertheless carried in the dark, frozen hush of the perfectly manicured grounds. There was a lull in the general conversation around them and John flushed in fury and, to a smaller but still very prominent extent, embarrassment. Beside him, Sherlock stiffened and began speaking faster to Lestrade while pulling on his black gloves. He inconspicuously pinched the sleeve of John's jacket and began towing him along as he started walking away from the crime scene. John followed behind, grinding his teeth, trying to control his anger and not start shouting at everyone from the Yard. Betting pool about him and Sherlock? Taking it up the arse? It was none of their business!

Lestrade gave John a confused look while he hastily jotted down notes as Sherlock continued to speak- until Sherlock's rapid flow of deduction took a startlingly turn.

"Wait. Why the groundskeeper? If he'd done it-"

"She."

"She?"

"Yes, the groundskeeper is a female. You said _he_, assuming the groundskeeper would have been a male which is generally the situation however in this particular case the groundskeeper is a female, a relative of the owner of the house. Her family experienced financial difficulties and are being assisted by her more well-to-do relations, in this case by giving her a job."

Lestrade stared for a few seconds before shaking his head and calling Donovan over, asking about the interviews and blanching when he realized the bloody groundskeeper hadn't been questioned.

"Find her." He snapped, and turned back to Sherlock and John, rubbing his head. "Anything el-"

"You won't find her. No doubt she's fled to her relations in Ireland."

"Ireland? But that's-"

"How do you know?" Donovan asked, her lips curving into a sneer as she looked from Sherlock to John, her eyes lingering on John for a few telling seconds longer than Sherlock liked. The look made Sherlock want to jerk John behind him and hiss at the woman, inform her in no uncertain terms that John was _his_ and to keep her eyes- and hands- away from him. It was a feeling he had been experiencing a lot lately, and with more frequency than he liked, at the most inopportune times. It was something he meant to discuss with Mrs. Hudson very soon.

"It's very simple actually. You would have no doubt spotted it as well, Sergeant," he smoothly replied, "if you had not been so preoccupied finding out who is the receptive partner during sexual intercourse between John and myself." Sherlock allowed himself a smug smirk and swept past the stunned Sergeant and Lestrade who was red-faced from trying not to laugh.

"Oh, and sergeant?" Sherlock turned and John felt his stomach drop, knowing what was coming but unable to prevent it from happening. "For the record…it's me."

John closed his eyes in pure mortification as Lestrade guffawed in laughter.

* * *

John was quiet on the ride back to the flat and Sherlock let him brood as he texted Molly, cajoling her into giving him fresh samples of fingers. He had been inspired at the crime scene and was now running through different scenarios in his head of how he could accurately replicate the rate of decomposition before and after exposure to below freezing temperatures in the flat. He thought that John may approve of this experiment as it would require Sherlock to lower the thermostat in the flat. John was always complaining about their heating bill.

Sherlock, tapping his fingers, waited for Molly's response and risked a look at John: still angry.

He knew someone else had already done research about such a thing- the decomposition of extremities when exposed to freezing temperatures- but that wasn't really the point. _He_ had never done such an experiment before and why read about it when he could gain firsthand knowledge about it? He would have _fun_ conducting the experiment.

His phone pinged and he rolled his eyes in annoyance at the amount of 'x's and 'o's Molly seemed to deem necessary to place at the end of each message she sent him. At least she had agreed to supply him with the fingers. He locked the phone and put it back in his pocket, contemplating Molly. She had taken the news of his and John's changed relationship status remarkably well. He had been afraid she would attempt to bar him from the morgue and reduce the amount of samples she delivered to him- but the exact opposite was true. Sherlock frowned, remembering the way she had blushed and stammered over him. This required further thought…

When they climbed out of the cab, Sherlock held the door open for John but wasn't rewarded with John's usual smile. It had become something of a joke between them to try and beat the other to hold doors open and John was always laughing about it. Sherlock re-evaluated just how angry John was.

The conclusion: _very_.

* * *

John flung himself into his armchair, his coat and scarf still on, and sighed deeply, closing his eyes.

"That was a nightmare." He groaned. Sherlock paused in the act of hanging his coat up and glanced over at John.

"You're regretting telling everyone we're together." Sherlock said drily, trying not to notice how _constricted_ this information made his chest feel.

"I didn't have much say in whether or not we told people." John grumbled, crossing his arms and opening his eyes, watching as Sherlock slowly lowered himself into his own chair opposite him. "That's not it, though. I just…didn't expect it to be as awkward as arse. Everyone staring-"

"We could give them something to stare _at_." Sherlock murmured and John snorted.

"You already did that when you told them we were together."

"Are you still angry about that?" Sherlock asked, exasperated. Really, he did not understand what was so horrible about what he had done. Mrs. Hudson had even laughed when he had told her about it and commented-

"Sherlock. Taking a picture of me while I was sleeping was bad enough. But putting that picture _on my blog_ with the caption I was sleeping in your bed after just having a shag…how could that in any way be good?"

"It was the most viewed page on your blog." Sherlock replied petulantly.

"Really not the point right now, Sherlock."

They lapsed into silence, John closing his eyes again and Sherlock steepling his fingers beneath his chin, both lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock knew why John was so upset. No doubt he was being tedious over his changed sexual status of "very heterosexual" to "shagging-another-man-gay." He had been fine with that changed status while what he and Sherlock were doing was in private. No doubt going _public_ with such information was upsetting and embarrassing for him.

Sherlock regarded John over the tips of his fingers and didn't feel guilty in the slightest. He had purposefully put that picture on John's blog, knowing John would not like it, but he was not sorry for it. He would not _apologize_ for it. He had known that if he left it up _John_ when they would come out as a couple it would be forever and a day. John would want to wait, he would agonize over the decision, he would fret and come up with all sorts of excuses not to tell people and reasons why it would be best to wait until this date, or this particular event happened, etc. after tedious etc. Sherlock had been eager to let everyone know that John was his, and his alone. They were together, romantically.

To be fair, he had waited almost 24 hours before posting the photo. But it had worked wonderfully. There would be no awkwardness of John stammering to explain why he could not be set up with a friend's boring female friend- and there would be _no going out_ for John on such dates. There would be no hushed statements of "Not in public, Sherlock" or "People may see" or, even more tedious, "People may talk." Sherlock felt rather proud that his photo of John post-shag had done the trick and alleviated all that dullness.

Staring at John, though, Sherlock felt a bit…bad. After all, John was upset and angry and this meant that Sherlock would be subjected to the _looks_. John was forever giving him looks now when he did something "not good."

Sherlock rose from his chair and quickly settled himself atop John, his knees to either side of the shorter mans' thighs. John's eyes opened and he sternly looked up at Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice serious and still a bit angry but his hands came up to grip Sherlock's hips, urging him closer.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said, ghosting his lips over John's cheek and heard the short man sigh.

"What are you sorry for?"

"Upsetting you." Sherlock replied promptly, actually meaning it, and frowned when John snorted in derision.

"You're so clueless." He murmured, but gently cupped Sherlock's cheek in his hand and brought their lips together, sweetly and slow. "I still love you, though."

Sherlock gasped as he felt that odd, half-choking, half-expanding feeling in his chest, which he experienced whenever John told him he loved him. It felt a bit like…well, like what a heart attack was said to feel like. At the same time, he felt relief so keenly throughout his body he felt drugged, his limbs so heavy while his heart raced and he felt so excited he was almost nauseous with it. He hoped he never stopped feeling this way.

Sherlock kissed John, a quick peck that turned into a lingering, slow dance of lips and tongues, before he reluctantly pulled away and began unwinding the scarf from John's neck. John rolled his eyes but allowed it until Sherlock threw the scarf away and sat back on John's knees to admire the truly beautiful bite marks he had placed on John's neck the previous evening. He had spent time making sure they were perfect (John had been _very_ willing to allow him this time to work as his hand had been wrapped around his cock the entire time) and symmetrical because if he were going to spend an entire _week_ convincing John to allow him to give him a "hickey," he was going to make a damn _event_ of it, not rush into it in a hurried frenzy. The results had been worth it.

Sherlock smiled as he brushed his thumb across a mark near the base of John's neck that was particularly purple and hummed happily in his chest. They decorated each side of John's throat and Sherlock leaned in and licked the first one, hearing John catch his breath. He grinned before licking the next one, then switching sides and licking again. John clutched at his shirt and titled his head back. Sherlock, taking this as an invitation, cradled John's head in one hand and sucked-

"No," John shoved him away, Sherlock's mouth disconnecting from John's skin with a wet pop. "No more. It's too hard covering them and I'm almost a forty year old man for god sakes. Hickeys are something you do when you're a teenager." John clenched his jaw and sternly looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock really liked that face- especially when they were having sex. It wasn't his favorite John-face, but it was close.

"There are other…_less obvious_ places I could leave them, John." Sherlock whispered seductively, leaning back in to lick the shell of John's ear.

"Sherlock. _No_. No more hickeys. I mean it."

"Are you sure? You haven't even heard where they would be." Sherlock tugged at John's ear with his teeth, feeling John arch slightly beneath him. "Places no one but me would be looking." They better not be, he added silently in his head.

"_Sherlock_."

Hearing delicious defeat in John's voice, Sherlock smirked and slid off John to kneel in front of his short doctor.

"Maybe we should-"

"There's no point in going to the bedroom. Mrs. Hudson is on a date." Sherlock twisted his face at the idea and John laughed but this was a wonderful development. John had never had a problem having sex in the sitting room- a fact Sherlock had perhaps slightly taken advantage of- until the morning Mrs. Hudson had visited them with a sly smile on her face and dropping all sorts of hints about sex and Mrs. Turner's ones next door. John had blushed and ever since had refused to touch Sherlock sexually in the sitting room. Annoying.

"You checked this guy out-"

"John, I really don't want to talk about our landlady and her date right now."

John laughed and motioned for Sherlock to begin and he wasted no time in divesting John of his jeans and pants, wadding them into a ball and tossing them across the room. He turned to John, raising an eyebrow at his already prominent erection and John huffed, embarrassed. That…hurt. Sherlock knew why John was sometimes embarrassed about his obvious desire for him and it made him feel uncomfortable, most likely because he knew it was his fault. Sherlock leaned down and took him in his mouth, taking him all the way down as far as he could, then slowly, slowly drawing the length back out before repeating the motion, enjoying the way John's head fell back and he moaned erotically.

Once John had relaxed again, Sherlock pulled away from his erection and, after surveying his thighs, Sherlock sank his teeth into the sensitive skin of John's inner thigh and John bucked his hips, moaning. Sherlock was careful not to bite too hard- at least not yet- and sucked the skin, applying just the right amount of pressure to produce a truly lovely mark. Judging by the sounds John was making, he was enjoying it just as much as Sherlock loved doing it. He hummed, flicking his tongue across John's skin and drawing back slightly when John's hips bucked upwards, his cock bobbing, a bead of pre-come forming at the head. Sherlock released the skin and pressed a reverent kiss to it before sitting back to admire his work. Beautiful.

He went to work on the other thigh, this time higher up, closer to John's erect cock which just brushed his curls. He bit and John hissed, thrusting again, rolling his hips in time with each suck of Sherlock's mouth on his over-sensitive skin. Sherlock took the opportunity to bite harder and John yelped, his hands scrabbling through Sherlock's curls and pulling slightly on them, his voice breathy and weak as he whispered, "Sherlock."

Sherlock gave one last nip and released the skin, admiring the already purpling mark as his hand gently caressed John's cock, giving it light, teasing strokes. He smirked and rolled his eyes up to look at John who already looked wild and very, thoroughly aroused. When their eyes met, John groaned and forcibly pulled Sherlock up to crash their lips together, their teeth clicking together as he pushed Sherlock back, riding him down to the floor.

"If you had your way I'd be a walking billboard- "Property of Sherlock Holmes." John growled, sitting up to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, a few buttons regrettably parting company with the shirt as John grew more impatient, his entire focus on getting Sherlock naked as quickly as possible.

This was lucky as he missed the way Sherlock's breathing hitched and his eyes lit up in barely suppressed delight.

"_John_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again everyone and thanks for reading. This chapter took longer than I thought it would to finish and post. There was a very unexpected death in my family Sunday night that has really derailed both my life and my writing. I wanted to let anyone who reads this know because this may mean that my writing takes a bit longer than usual due to circumstances but, as I have always said, I'm not abandoning anything. I will still be writing, still be posting, etc. **

**Now, on to happier topics! :D There's some sleepy Johnlock in this chapter- it's rather a weakness of mine. Thanks for the awesome reviews! To the guest reviews and those that I cannot reply to- thanks! :D So flattered you like my writing! **

**Enjoy! :D**

* * *

When John woke, his face was pressed into Sherlock's hair, curls tickling his nose and making it twitch. He breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of soap, musk, and the smoke of a pilfered cigarette that Sherlock was still not owning up to smoking. He pulled away, eyes watering, and Sherlock made a sleepy, annoyed sound and rolled further away from him, twisting out of his arms, obviously piqued that his precious sleep was being disturbed by John's movement. Sleeping in the same bed together had thus far been rather rocky. Both were used to sleeping by themselves, Sherlock more so than John, and deciding who got which side of the bed had been tantamount to World War III. John had fought fairly- and had therefore lost the coveted left side of the bed to Sherlock.

The selfish, dirty fighting git, John thought savagely. Really, after what Sherlock had done to claim "his" side of the bed, he should count himself lucky John would even sleep with him. Disgusting.

Even though Sherlock had won his choice side of the bed, most nights found him gently extracting himself from John's arms and sneaking out to lie on the sofa, unable to sleep with another person in his bed. He explained that John's breathing was too loud, that it was disconcerting to wake to another person in his bed at odd hours of the night, and that, as he didn't require as much sleep as John, he would only keep him awake as he attempted to relax and think. He got very mad, though, when John suggested he go back upstairs and sleep in his own room so as not to disturb Sherlock.

"We're a couple and couples share sleeping arrangements."

"Did you read that on the internet? Been looking up more couples stuff?" John teased, liking the way Sherlock's cheeks tinged just slightly pink. His research endeavors about proper couple etiquette had been disastrous and he thought it unfair of John to tease him about it. John thought these failures of Sherlock's were sadly endearing, if a bit humorous. It was obvious, after only a week as a couple, that Sherlock, for all his genius and brilliant deductions, was truly clueless when it came to romantic relationships. John's best advice to him had been to stop going on the internet for answers.

"I didn't need to research such information, John," came the icy reply. "It is a well-known fact that couples sleep in the same bed."

"Not every couple sleeps in the same bed-"

"Couples who do _not_ share sleeping arrangements are 50% more likely to split up than couples who do share."

"That's bollocks, Sherlock. I think if our relationship can survive all the other horrible stuff we put it through it can survive separate beds. We could still have conjugal visits, though." John leered but Sherlock steepled his fingers and gave him a very serious look.

"You are talking about our friendship, which indeed went through various perils and yet emerged still intact. Our _romantic_ relationship is still new. It's good that we argue as research has found that the more a couple argues during the formative years of their relationship, the stronger that relationship will be in the long run."

"That doesn't mean you need to create scenarios to _make_ us argue." John reminded Sherlock warily, suddenly worried that had been Sherlock's plan all along.

"Of course not, John. That would defeat the object. I _do_, however, wish to continue doing well in our relationship and that means we share the same bed."

"We could be different." John cajoled, knowing Sherlock wasn't really comfortable with their sleeping arrangement. "Who cares what some idiot research team decided? You know we'd be fine-"

"_No_."

John had rolled his eyes and let the subject go. If Sherlock wanted him to sleep in his nicer and more comfortable bed, John would do so and gladly (he could push to the back of his mind the truly disgusting way Sherlock had won the bloody left side of the bed). He fell asleep each night wrapped around Sherlock and even if he didn't wake up in that way, he woke with a smile because he was happy. Really and truly, absolutely happy.

This morning, the smell of stale cigarette smoke still clinging to his nostrils, John threw a look at Sherlock's indignant back before sighing and rolling over, pulling the covers tighter around himself and wondering why it was so cold in the flat that morning. It had obviously continued snowing the previous night and he dreaded walking to work in the cold. John groaned, Sherlock thrashing irritably about before settling again, when he realized he'd woken ahead of his alarm. John shut his eyes and tried to _force_ himself back to sleep.

There was an irritated sigh from the other side of the bed.

"Do be quiet, John. I am _trying_ to sleep."

"Not talking. Trying to do the same." John grumbled back sleepily. He tried to remain completely still so as not to disturb Sherlock, who had decided to finish the morning in bed and not the sofa- a rare occurrence- but no sooner had he resolved not to move than his leg began to ache.

_Fuck_. John wanted to roll back over but didn't want to wake Sherlock further. He tried closing his eyes tighter and focusing on getting sleepy, drifting off, allowing his body to feel lighter and lighter, and forget the pain. It didn't work. If anything it only seemed to wake him up and intensify the pain.

He _really_ needed to move. The ache was becoming a throb that he knew would turn into stabs of pain if he didn't change positions. John tried to shift…just…._slightly_ and…._very_…slowly in order to take away some of the pressure-

Sherlock sighed again, a loud, gusty sound that conveyed all the annoyance it was humanly possible for him to feel.

"Sorry." John said, rolling onto his back, not caring if he jostled Sherlock since the man was already awake. There was a pause full of intense annoyance, then Sherlock rolled over, pressing himself against John, his hand rubbing at his hip.

"Don't go to work today." Sherlock murmured sleepily, his hand inching underneath John's bottoms. "Stay. We could go to the morgue and collect my new experiment." His lips brushed John's neck but John pulled away, wary of allowing Sherlock further liberties with that part of his anatomy.

"Mmm. What did Molly agree to give you this time?"

"Fingers. I've devised a truly interesting experiment-"

"Oh, god. Just please don't put them next to the food this time. Put them in the crisper drawer so we won't have to look at them. If I have to look at one more mutilated body part when I'm feeling peckish I'll….I'll…" John trailed off as he yawned and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's slender side.

"I'm sure you will, John. I'll put them anywhere you like if you stay." Sherlock bribed, forcing his face into the bend of John's neck despite resistance and licking at the skin there. "There's no reason for you to go anyway."

"Yes, except food and bills and all the other things we have to use money for. Remember money, Sherlock? It's how you buy things in the real world."

Sherlock apparently had nothing scathing to say to this and remained silent. John enjoyed the feeling of Sherlock pressed against him, warm and comforting. He managed to remain still and listened to Sherlock's breathing slowly even out. His lanky body had just gone limp in sleep when John's alarm shrieked, the shrill beeping cutting through the blissful silence. John scrambled to shut it off and Sherlock growled angrily and huffily flung himself onto his preferred side of the bed, flipping the covers almost over his head and burrowing like a truly irate hibernating animal.

"It's only a half-shift. I'll be back round noon." John said consolingly, tossing back the covers and wincing as his bare feet hit the cold floor. It was bloody freezing in here!

There was icy silence from the Sherlock-sized lump on the bed.

John was almost to the door, intent on going to his room to get dressed (he really needed to move his clothes downstairs), when Sherlock finally spoke, his voice entirely too smug for seven o'clock on a Monday morning.

"How do you plan to hide the marks on your neck?"

John paused, having actually forgotten about the livid marks strung about his neck like a sadist's necklace. "I've got a turtleneck-"

"I seem to recall an unfortunate incident with carbonic acid involving that same jumper."

"Of course you do, Sherlock." John sighed.

* * *

John tugged at the collar of his jumper, trying and failing to hide the vivid marks about his neck. He'd gritted his teeth all day as he watched his patients first look him in the eye, then glance down at the marks, then look at him again but this time with an awareness in their eyes that made John's skin crawl. He was almost done for the day when Sarah popped her head into his office.

"John? After lunch, would you care to take one of mine? It's a young man and he requested to be seen by a male doctor."

"Sure." John took the young man's chart and tried not to notice how Sarah's eyes were trained on his neck.

"Did you have a fun weekend?"

Oh, god, what was she implying? "Hmm? Yeah, me and Sherlock worked on the Camden Cult Crime- I posted it on my blog."

"Oh, yeah. Right, I saw that." Sarah paused and John had a second's warning before- "I also saw…You know. You and Sherlock. That's great. Really, really great."

"Yeah…thanks." John said, forcing a smile, fully aware of how awkward it was to talk to Sarah, whom he had both dated and shagged, about his new homosexual relationship with his best friend. He had managed to avoid this discussion last week while Sarah had been on vacation but he had underestimated how bloody difficult it would be.

"I always thought the two of you would end up together."

Yeah, you and every other woman I dated, John thought, remembering a few choice comments from his blog posted by former girlfriends. Many of which had been along the lines of _"Finally! We knew it before you did! John Watson, you were so flaming for Sherlock Holmes we could have roasted marshmallows!"_ John suddenly wondered, with a sick feeling of dread and certainty, if there had also been a betting pool at the clinic about him and Sherlock. He felt properly horrified at the idea of his smiling and genial co-workers, many of whom were women, making bets about his sex life.

"I mean, it just explains so much." Sarah shrugged, laughing awkwardly and shaking her head.

John frowned, shifting in his chair. What the hell did that mean? "_What_ does it explain?"

"Look, it's none of my business. Just please see that patient before you leave for the day, ok? Thanks!" Sarah gave him a parting smile and left, leaving John feeling dissatisfied and annoyed.

* * *

When he got back to the flat, Sherlock was gone, no doubt procuring his fingers, and John was actually grateful. He needed time to himself, without enduring Sherlock's antics, after the week he had endured.

He changed clothes, made himself a cup of tea, and stretched out on the sofa to check his blog. He pursed his lips in resignation as he brought up the page. What had once been a fun activity was now…decidedly not. His blog was overloaded with notifications of comments about his picture, which he had not yet been able to figure out how to take down. Reading the comments, some of them rather graphic, John wanted to bury his head in his hands.

It wasn't that he was unhappy with Sherlock. He wasn't disturbed at being in a relationship with another man and he wasn't ashamed of what he had with Sherlock. It wasn't like he had been lying to himself his entire life about being straight and he didn't really think he had always been a closet homosexual who had vigorously suppressed it. With Sherlock…well, it was just like…like flipping a switch on in a dark room you'd been stumbling around in for a while, suddenly illuminating everything in bright light and John _understood_. Understood what? Well, he was still trying to figure that part out but John _thought_ that perhaps he understood that love wasn't confined by gender and humanity's frail constructions of sexuality. It was the kind of moment one experienced when one had been trying to remember something important and finally did, or had been looking for something for ages and ages and then suddenly…there it was.

It was effortless and felt a bit like falling, easy…and just as terrifying.

No, John was not disturbed about his relationship with Sherlock. He loved it, and he loved the irrational man he was sharing it with.

It was the stares and whispers, the knowing looks and smirks that everyone gave him _because_ of that relationship with Sherlock that bothered John. He hated having his sex life discussed by people he saw on a regular basis every day, the people he worked with, the cops down at the Yard, and strangers who read his blog. Things like that were private and John didn't want everyone knowing about them. And Sherlock didn't make things easier.

The reaction to his and Sherlock's being together may not have been so severe if Sherlock hadn't posted his damn photo. He and Sherlock could have eased everyone into the idea of them finally being a couple, not sprung it on everyone all at once. John let his head fall back as he remembered finding out what Sherlock had done.

* * *

"John, how long have you known?"

John glanced at his phone to make sure who he was talking to. "Harry? Is this you?" He couldn't ever remember hearing his sister's voice so high-pitched in his life. She sounded as if she were vibrating with excitement.

Behind him, in the kitchen, Sherlock suddenly went still and glanced over at John.

"Oh course, it's me! John, _how could you not have told me_? I'm your sister, and a _lesbian_! I would've understood!"

"Harry, hang on. What're you talking about?"

"We're talking about the fact that you're gay and you never told me! I could've helped you, John. You didn't have to hide it! I knew it was possible while we were growing up- and after you met Sherlock just seeing the way you looked at him-"

"_What are you talking about_?" John's head was spinning. Where had Harry- his sister who lived in _Dublin_- heard about him and Sherlock? No one knew except the two of them and Mrs. Hudson…

One corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up in an amused, self-satisfied smirk.

"Are you really going to deny it, John? _Really_? After that picture? I can be sympathetic up to a point-"

"What? Harry, have you been drinking?" John frowned and wondered if this was a new low for Harry: hallucinations and accusing her brother of being homosexual without evidence.

"No!" He heard his sister draw in a deep breath and then it whooshed down the line. "I'm sorry. I just looked at your new blog post and I had to call. Maybe I should've calmed down first but I just…I started thinking of you growing up and thinking you had to hide it." Her voice grew choked up. "I never made it easy for you and maybe you thought…I don't know. You probably didn't think you could come to me." Harry drew in another deep, shaking breath. "I knew you and Sherlock were shagging but I didn't expect you to go so public with it." She giggled, suddenly ecstatic. "You've got to tell me everything!"

"_What are you talking about_? What blog post?"

There was a beat of silence.

"_John_. The post you made last night? You, post-shag? Captioned and I quote, "Sleeping in Sherlock's bed after having shagged him into the mattress?" Helloooo, John, ring any bells?"

John felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. He snatched up his laptop and quickly logged onto his blog, vaguely aware of Harry continuing to blather on in his ear about rough childhoods and his rugby playing days and how this explained everything about why he had joined the army.

He stared in shock at his screen. _No_. Sherlock wouldn't have… He would have known better…_anyone_ would've known better than to do that…

Apparently not Sherlock.

John's eyes skimmed over the couple hundred comments the picture had already received in less than 8 hours, his eyes growing bigger and bigger before he finally managed to choke out, "_Sherlock_!"

"Yes, John?"

John jumped when he realized Sherlock had been standing over his shoulder the entire time, reading the comments with him. He was vaguely aware of hanging up on Harry and staring some more at the picture of himself, his hair mussed, face lax in sleep, chest barely covered by a sheet, though thankfully his scar was shielded from the camera because of the position he lay in. Maybe it was his imagination since he knew when the photo had been taken, but John thought he looked very post-shag, rather…debauched. He looked as if he had been going at it for a while, roughly.

Sherlock plucked the laptop from John and scanned through the comments, grimacing, before he smirked and closed the lid.

"Word travels fast."

John was almost apoplectic in rage. He didn't even trust himself to speak at the moment. He tried to calm himself by breathing, gripping the arms of his chair in white knuckled fury to keep himself from hitting Sherlock.

Not working.

"I'm going for some air." He gritted out, hurrying to get out of the flat before he did or said something he would regret.

"John-?"

He was already down the stairs and almost out the door. It had taken him almost an hour to calm down and now, as John scanned the new comments on his blog, many of which consisted of multiple "omg's" and "I knew it's!" as well as the occasional random keyboard smash, he found he was still far from calm over the whole thing. Maybe in time, it would fade into another one of those insensitive things Sherlock always did and John could laugh about it, but right now, he was still pissed.

He slid the laptop onto the coffee table and stretched, deciding to take a warming shower before Sherlock came back. Really, why was the flat so damn cold?

* * *

Sherlock ran into the flat, showering snow onto the floor as he flung his coat off and hastily placed his precious fingers in the fridge, not bothering to place them in the crisper drawer. That may negate the parameters of his experiment and he was sure when he explained this to John he would understand. He could hear the shower going down the hall and thought of joining John- when he saw the laptop, still open, in the sitting room.

Curiosity piqued, Sherlock stalked over and looked to see what John had been doing.

His blog. Opened to the truly delicious photo Sherlock had taken and posted.

He frowned as he read the comments John had opened, his eyes rapidly flying back and forth, before he closed the lid, feeling thoroughly unsettled. Sherlock stared at the laptop for a few minutes as his brain ran through all the reasons John would have been looking at the comments when Sherlock knew they upset him. John had been off work for at least an hour and had spent that time dwelling on the inane comments on his blog. Why?

The only conclusion Sherlock could come up with was very not good.


	3. Chapter 3

**Yay! I'm writing again (even if it did turn out to be really porny and, yeah)! Thanks for the love, support, and patience you guys! It was awesome and much, much appreciated!**

**BAMF!Mrs. Hudson- anyone?**

**Enjoy :) Please read and review.**

* * *

The marks had entirely faded from John's neck by the time Sherlock received another case. John thought he would have gone insane by the time this happened- himself, not Sherlock. He was used to Sherlock being on edge when he didn't have cases, but the sixth time John had to duck as something sailed over his head as Sherlock frantically searched the flat for cigarettes, he decided this was too much.

"Seriously. He's not picky- anything, just anything. _Whatever _you've got. Cold case, drugs bust, hell, missing _court summons_, he'll take it." John pleaded to Lestrade, jumping when he heard a loud crash from the sitting room, dreading to turn round and see what Sherlock had destroyed.

"Christ, was that him? Look, John, I want to help out but I've got nothing. It's thankfully for us been a slow week. Listen, call Mycroft. You know he'll have something clever for Sherlock to work on."

There was another crash from the sitting room and Lestrade snorted, amused. "I don't envy you right now, mate."

Sighing, John ended the call, knowing hell had a better chance of freezing over than Sherlock accepting a case from Mycroft, no matter how desperate he was.

When he went back into the sitting room, it was to find the potted plant broken and scattered about the floor, John's armchair, Sherlock's armchair, and finally the sofa all turned over, their undersides revealed. The sitting room window was open, cold air flooding into the room, and Sherlock was sprawled against the casing, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Not a very original choice of hiding place." He purred, his voice relaxed and sardonic, eyes glassy and unfocused as the nicotine flooded his system.

"Still took you over three hours to deduce it." John replied drily, righting his own chair and sitting down, looking about the wrecked flat with resigned eyes.

"I was overestimating your intellect." Sherlock replied, taking a long drag from his cigarette, hollowing his cheeks and closing his eyes as if it were the best thing he had ever experienced. John frowned, wondering why there was something very sexual about the way Sherlock smoked and wondering if it were wrong that he was getting turned on by it when while he was still angry. "I gave you more credit for inventiveness. I will remember next time you have as little imagination as your potted plant." Sherlock looked at the piles of dirt and limp greenery strewn about. "May it rest in peace."

"You didn't have to-"

"You shouldn't have ruined my fingers."

"You're….you did all this…this damage because I moved your bloody fingers to the _crisper drawer_?"

Sherlock didn't reply and nonchalantly flicked ash off the end of his glowing cigarette, seeming to ignore John and the mess he had made of the flat.

"You're such a fucking child."

"Would that make you my mother?"

John had had enough. He had endured days and days of this and today was the final straw. He gave Sherlock a stony look before getting up and heading towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I have no imagination or intellect, apparently. Shouldn't be hard for you to deduce it for yourself, Sherlock."

Sherlock knew when not to push John and mutely watched him gather up his coat and leave the flat, slamming the downstairs door. He casually lit up another cigarette with the glowing end of his previous one and watched John stalk off down the street without looking back. He tried not to notice the hollow feeling in his chest he experienced as he watched John leave, because that was idiotic. John was coming back and he knew that. They had rowed before- and would no doubt row again. This wasn't _The Fight_ that would end them.

"_What happened in here_?"

Sherlock smirked and lit up another cigarette before turning to face his irate landlady.

"Oh, nothing important, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry to disturb y-"

Mrs. Hudson strode forward and jerked the cigarette from Sherlock's lips, tossing it into a half-empty mug of tea before turned to face him, glaring.

"Where're the rest of them, young man?"

Sherlock snorted, unconcerned, and handed her the rest of the pack before picking his way across the cluttered floor, careful not to step on shattered pottery with his bare feet, and leapt the final foot into the kitchen.

"What've you done, Sherlock?"

"Bored."

"Is this John's plant?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed in irritation. "He _hated_ that plant. His co-workers gave it to him for Christmas. It was hideous." He didn't add that it had been looking so hideous because he'd been experimenting on it. John hadn't cared about it anyway, even before it had started to droop.

He looked back at Mrs. Hudson who still stood in the center of the room, her arms crossed and a sad expression on her face as she took in the destruction of the flat. Something low in his stomach jerked unpleasantly at her expression and the emotion it seemed to convey.

"Oh, Sherlock."

* * *

It was hours later before John returned to the flat, finally calm enough to deal with an irritated Sherlock Holmes whose mind was tearing itself (and the flat) to shreds. The entire flat was dark and John assumed Sherlock had gone out- with any luck and if there was a God in Heaven he was on a case. He checked his phone as he switched on the sitting room light, making sure Sherlock hadn't texted him where he was going…and froze in shock.

Everything was picked up and put in it's proper place. The flat looked wonderful, and John couldn't even tell that a hurricane labeled Sherlock Holmes had wrecked it earlier that day. A faint lemony smell of cleaning chemicals lingered in the air as John blinked at the totally unexpected sight. He had been expecting to see the flat as destroyed as it had been when he left or even worse, all ready and waiting for him to start cleaning it.

He cautiously glanced into the kitchen and- yup, that too was clean and sparkling. No signs of mold or gross experiments littering the counters. No dirty dishes and half-eaten take-away containers. Spotless.

John sighed. Obviously, Mrs. Hudson had cleaned up, knowing Sherlock was in one of his moods and probably having heard their row. As embarrassing as it was for their landlady to know everything about them (John would probably always blush when she mentioned how thin the walls of the flat were), Mrs. Hudson was a wonder.

Really, she did too much for them, he thought as he walked down the hall to their bedroom, and he contemplated how he could make this up to her. Not only did she give them (unsolicited) advice, she baked and cooked for them, cleaned, helped him with Sherlock's moods, even helped hide evidence for cases. The list was endless. If Mrs. Hudson left Baker Street, England may fall- but their domestic life would too, of that John was certain.

John had barely opened his and Sherlock's bedroom door when he was grabbed and hauled inside. The door slammed shut and he was pressed roughly against the wood, his face cupped in lemon scented hands, and his mouth assaulted by lips that still tasted faintly of smoke.

"Sherlock- what?" John managed to pull away long enough to speak before Sherlock's hand carded through his hair and tugged his head back, deepening the kiss and silencing John very effectively. He forgot what he had been trying to say as Sherlock's tongue swept into his mouth, scattering his thoughts and reorganizing them into something much more perverted and sexual.

"Want you," he heard Sherlock whisper against his mouth and that made John's desire spike exponentially and he forgot about their fight earlier, forgot about the long days of dealing with the irritating man, forgot everything except the feeling of those clever hands beginning to divest him of his clothing with rapidity. He followed their example, ridding Sherlock of his dressing gown and pajamas as he began pushing the taller man back towards their bed, their lips only breaking contact for the barest of seconds to pull John's shirt over his head before they fell into the kiss again. Sherlock's teeth nipped rather hard at John's lips in admonishment for wearing clothing that had to be removed in such a way and could not be simply unbuttoned. John moaned and accepted his punishment manfully.

They fell onto the bed and John caught himself with his hands, holding himself up so he had enough leverage to thrust slowly against Sherlock, grinning smugly when the aggravating man hissed at the pleasurable contact. He dipped down to kiss him again, continuing to thrust, spiking their arousal, intent on making Sherlock fall apart before-

"I hate when we fight."

John pulled away at the sound of the unsure rumble and looked down at Sherlock, whose eyes were closed as if he were embarrassed of making such a statement.

"I thought it was good when couples fought." John teased him, trying to diffuse the suddenly tense atmosphere, feeling as if he had missed something, something important and was trying to understand where this was coming from. If anything, he would have thought Sherlock enjoyed their fighting because it meant they would be more compatible and successful as a couple. He had said as much.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, not responding. He strained up to bring their lips together again before rolling them and pushing John back against the mattress. They thrust against each other, John's hands reaching around and clasping Sherlock's buttocks, grinding them together as their kisses turned heated and more desperate. Finally, Sherlock pulled away and magically produced a bottle of lube (John had been watching him the entire time and he was still unsure where Sherlock had been storing the bottle) before he turned, without a word, onto his hands and knees, waiting for John to get on with it.

John shook his head. Such was the general foreplay when he and Sherlock had sex. Oh, sometimes Sherlock went all out and treated John to luxurious foreplay that seemed to last hours. Other times, he was like this. John rubbed Sherlock's slim hips, noting the various scars along his sides and thighs (stabbing, burns, shallow cuts, and some that were unidentifiable). He leaned forward and kissed those within his range, gaining no response from Sherlock. Even when his tongue traced each one, Sherlock remained impassive.

John, undaunted, kissed the small of Sherlock's back, inhaling the crisp, clean smell of his soap, deducing he had showered recently, and licked a line from that point of contact to the very start of his buttocks. He felt Sherlock move minutely beneath him and opened his eyes.

He knew Sherlock wasn't aware it was him who was doing these things to him. They still wrestled with this: the ease with which Sherlock retreated into his mind and forgot who he was with during sex, focusing only on his pleasure and nothing else. It limited their positions because Sherlock, if not faced with John before him, tended to shut down unless he was fully concentrating on not doing so. John had hoped this would get better eventually and he knew it would take time and effort to overcome years and years of engrained behavior. It made him feel like a meaningless shag, a penis that Sherlock used to gain physical release and then carelessly tossed aside. John rather hated feeling that way, to be honest, even if he knew that was not exactly the way things were. It wasn't even like that all the time but had seemed to have grown a bit worse as of late.

Since the lack of cases, Sherlock had been in the worst mood imaginable and, while John could convince himself that it had to do with the lack of mental stimulation, there seemed to be something particularly brooding in Sherlock's manner that worried him. He'd noticed it most often when they had sex. Before, Sherlock had at least _tried_ to stay aware with John and not block him out. For the last few days, however, he seemed not to care and wasn't trying and John wondered about it…but hadn't yet said anything. What if were due to the lack of mental stimulation, not anything else, and he made a big deal about it? Better to wait and see, he had decided.

Now, presented with a definitely tuned out but turned on Sherlock who was waiting expectantly for John to insert his penis, thrust vigorously for some long minutes, and make him reach climax, John had a theory.

He kissed, bit, and licked his way across Sherlock's buttocks, feeling the man beneath him remain placid and unmoving, his breathing even and calm. He knew if he reached for Sherlock's cock, it would only be half-hard. When Sherlock retreated to his mind, what John usually did with his body was more for John's benefit, not Sherlock's. He got off on the more visceral pleasures, not the foreplay.

John, however, had a theory that needed to be tested.

Taking a deep breath and looking up once more at the relaxed line of Sherlock's posture, John ducked his head and licked quickly over Sherlock's entrance.

Sherlock's spine bowed and a rough gasp tore from his lips.

"John."

"Hmm?" John smirked, knowing Sherlock couldn't see him and smoothed his hand up Sherlock's suddenly tense back.

There was no response, only panted breathing, and John smiled wider. Not going to ask what I'm doing? Cause you already know, you genius of a man.

John repeated the move, slower and more invasive, but this time there was no sound from Sherlock. The only response was the beginnings of a violent trembling in Sherlock's thighs that John could feel beneath his hands.

"Sherlock." He whispered, shaking his head and biting at the soft skin of Sherlock's upper thigh before delving inside one more, forcing his tongue past the muscle and hearing Sherlock's breathing catch, then stutter out in a truly elegant and perverted sounding moan.

"_Jo-ohn_."

John applied himself to the task, determined to give Sherlock as much pleasure as possible, running his hand up Sherlock's thigh and circling his hard cock, leisurely pumping it in time with the motions of his tongue. Sherlock was trembling, he could feel it, and something in John was extremely satisfied with how things were going. He pushed his tongue deeper, swirling it about, and Sherlock bucked, confused at the sensations, trying to push his penis into John's hand but wanting to push back against John's tongue.

Sherlock couldn't stay still. His spine bowed and arched, he shifted back, moaning, a litany of "John" and "please" falling from his lips.

John was elated. He worked Sherlock until the consulting detective's arms collapsed and he fell onto his elbows, trembling. He took pity on him and when he turned him over, Sherlock looked wrecked. His hair was sweaty and stuck to his forehead in curly-cues, his mouth was open and gasping, and his eyes were wide.

"Remember me?" John teased, grinning, kissing Sherlock's jutting hipbone as his hand reached for the bottle of lube, not that they would need much of it.

Sherlock couldn't respond and only panted, flexing his hips up when John eased a lube coated finger into him, then another, making sure he was slick and prepared.

Sherlock threw his head back when John entered him, his eyes fluttering closed each time John slowly thrust, finally snapping his hips up in response. Sherlock carded his fingers through John's hair and gave a sharp yank, forcing John's head back, eliciting a pained gasp from the smaller man.

"Fuck me." Sherlock commanded, tightening his grip on John's hair and smiling when John grimaced.

John picked up the pace, his hips slamming into Sherlock harder, making his hair bounce, filling the room with the sound of flesh on flesh smacking together sharply.

"_Sherlock_."

Sherlock was silent, staring up at John and watching him fall to pieces as he hammered into him, so hard he felt as if he would have bruises.

"Is that supposed to impress me?" Sherlock taunted breathlessly, raking the nails of his other hand down John's back.

"Oh, bloody fucking god." John grabbed Sherlock's legs, folding them back and pressing them to his chest and suddenly Sherlock was getting exactly what he wanted. He moaned and gripped John's arms, urging him to go faster, feeling his orgasm building quickly in the pit of his stomach as he watched John's eyes fall closed, the ache of rising pleasure too much for him to deal with and look at Sherlock at the same time.

Sherlock grasped his cock and began stroking it, slowly, teasing his pleasure out a little longer as he watched John. His thrusts were shakier, his breathing ragged, face flushed, and he knew John was close.

"Come, John." Sherlock raked his nails down John's back again. "Come."

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock!" John opened his eyes and desperately looked down at Sherlock and that was the trigger Sherlock needed to speed up his motions, his hand moving swiftly over his cock, and allow himself to come, the orgasm ripping through him and making his body jerk in delicious, tingling aftershocks.

John gave a handful more thrusts and then stilled, his eyes closed, mouth open in a soundless moan as he spilled into Sherlock for long moments. When he opened his eyes, he found Sherlock staring up at him, unable to decipher his expression but unnerved by it all the same.

"Be right back and I'll kiss you." John murmured, giving Sherlock an exhausted grin before gently pulling out and leaving to go down the hall to the bathroom.

He delivered on that kiss, his breath minty and lips cool, as he tenderly cleaned a silent and somber Sherlock up. John lobbed the cloth away and then curled himself around Sherlock, who wrapped his long arms around his blogger and pressed a kiss into his hair.

"Can't believe you cleaned the flat." John murmured sleepily, giving Sherlock a brief squeeze. "Thanks."

Thanks for coming back, Sherlock thought but didn't say it out loud. Instead, he held John tighter and allowed his lover to drift off to sleep, though he was unable to turn him own mind off the rest of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to everyone following and reviewing this! A special thanks to _sparrowismyhummingbird_ for being amazing and supportive- while being incredibly sweet and inspiring at the same time :D**

**There was a Guest review who asked me if Sherlock had been raped as a child, as he was showing disturbing signs when he tunes out to what John is doing. I was unable to respond to this because they were a Guest, however, I wanted to answer that: no, Sherlock has never been raped. The way I write his sexuality here is that he requires physical release, not any other sort of connection with his partner. His mind starts to protest, overburdened with information, his body develops these sexual feelings, and it's as simple as going out and procuring a willing sex partner to quiet both. He has sex very casually and with anyone he wants because he is able to tune them out and just feel the sensation of sex and release. I hope I made that clear in "The Chemistry" as well as this story. He is not disgusted when he and John have sex and John brings him out of his mind and, in a way, forces him to experience more than physical release. This is just not something Sherlock has ever done and it's hard to break habits, even for a genius such as Sherlock.**

**Warning: I usually don't have to put warnings at the front of my stories but I felt I should let everyone know there is a snuff film written about at the beginning of this chapter. I got the idea of this from a Laurell K. Hamilton's Anita Blake novel I read years ago. For those of you who don't know, a snuff film is a pornographic film in which someone dies at the end...or in this case, is murdered. If this isn't your cup of tea, I would suggest skimming down the page to the first slash, after which there is only passing mentions of the film and no specifics. **

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

Sherlock was thoroughly engrossed in the film, his bright eyes rapidly darting over the screen, absorbing every detail, his mind obviously engaged. John noticed his pupils were dilated and he hoped that had less to do with what was taking place on-screen and more to do with excitement over finally having a case.

Lestrade had called them that morning, the ringtone on Sherlock's mobile too loud in the quite, cold hush of the bedroom. Sherlock had leapt from the bed, vibrating with excitement and John had listened sleepily to the one-sided conversation. It was obvious, from Sherlock's annoyed, raised voice that Lestrade was refusing to tell him anything about the case, insisting he had to be in his office first. This meant, as Sherlock ended the call, that time was of the essence.

"John! Get up! There's a case!" Sherlock had dashed from the room and John had groaned and turned over sleepily. He would get up in just a minute…Just another…few…seconds…..

"_John_!" Sherlock jerked the duvet and sheets from the bed, ruining the perfectly warm and comforting cocoon John had been reticent to leave. This also left John naked and he had curled in on himself against the sudden rush of freezing air, trying to keep warm his more sensitive bits.

"Why's it so bloody cold?"

"Hurry!" Sherlock had yelled before disappearing with the bed linen, leaving John to sighed wearily and stumble down the hall to join him in the quickest shower of his life. He had barely had time to grab something quick to eat before Sherlock was pushing him down the stairs and into a waiting cab.

The images on-screen changed and John shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing he hadn't eaten that morning. He knew where this film was going and even knowing that, he felt a prickle of arousal. He was a man, he was watching a couple get it on, very graphically he might add, on the screen in front of him. How was he not supposed to feel a bit of arousal? Because it's _wrong_, he reminded himself, and you know how this _ends_. Knowing that, he felt justifiably disgusted with himself and turned away from the screen, catching Lestrade's eye.

"I'll just skip ahead to the murder." Lestrade said, his voice subdued, reaching for the remote, obviously as uncomfortable watching the film as John was, but Sherlock stopped him.

"I may see something relating to the case." He paused and turned to assess the DI. "Have you watched the entire film?"

Lestrade stopped the porn film, freezing the couple in a truly graphic position, the man forcefully pulling the woman's head back by her hair, her face frozen in a pantomime of pleasure. John felt sickened and looked away.

"I didn't need to watch the whole thing. Just the part when he-"

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he turned back to the screen.

"Begin."

Lestrade sighed regretfully but dutifully hit the play button.

Both he and John looked vaguely ill as the scene intensified, the woman's fake moans too loud in the hushed silence of the Detective Inspector's office. They somehow seemed cheaper and even more fake when John thought of the perfectly normal workday that was occurring just outside the office door. He already felt badly for the woman on the screen, and thinking of her desperately trying to please whoever it was holding the camera sickened him even more.

As her moans escalated to what was supposed to be rapturous cries, John swore to himself never to watch porn again. He didn't think he'd be able to after this anyway- this would haunt him.

After staring at his shoes for what felt like indeterminate minutes, he found himself watching Sherlock watch the film instead of watching it himself. Sherlock looked perfectly calm and at ease and John wondered how he did it- how he turned off his emotions and wasn't bothered by sentiment. It wasn't the first time John had wondered that and he knew with certainty that it wouldn't be the last.

Another man, completely naked, joined the first on-screen and began stroking the woman's head, pushing her hair back from her face. Realization came to John a few seconds before the man shoved his penis into the woman's mouth without saying a word.

"Jesus." He gasped, looking away and he heard Lestrade shift behind him. He didn't know why he was so affected by this. Part of the reason was because he knew how this would end, but he also thought it was due to the fact this video was being sold and _people were buying it_ even as they sat there and watched it. Maybe it was also because it had been the woman's sister who had discovered the video, starring her long-missing baby sister- and that made John feel incredibly bad for the family. How awful to not know what happened to a loved one- and how much worse to then know it had been _this_?

"Pause it." Sherlock said sharply and then leaned closer to the screen, trying to make out the new man's face. "Name?"

"Don't know." Lestrade grated, and Sherlock's eyes zoomed around the man's nude frame. He asked Lestrade to rewind his entrance into the scene, then play it back again, all the while his face inches from the screen.

John and Lestrade exchanged a look.

"Is this really necessary to watch?" John finally asked, crossing his arms. Sherlock didn't even turn to look at him.

"Leave if it bothers you." He replied distractedly, his pale face flickering as the images on the screen changed.

The film escalated from there. The woman struggled but the men were merciless, thrusting away, as she bucked between them. John stared at his feet again, certain that Sherlock would deduce all the information he needed and wouldn't require his input.

Finally, he heard the moans escalate and John looked up in time to see the man in front ejaculate, pulling out and covering the woman's face. The man behind sped up his movements and the woman climaxed, or pretended to climax, for the camera, moaning and screaming in what was supposed to be an erotic way. John wanted to leave the room. He knew what was coming next.

The man behind, without missing a beat, withdrew a machete- the blade large and gleaming wickedly- from beneath a pillow on the bed. He yanked on the woman's hair, exposing her white throat, and in one quick, efficient movement, slit her throat.

It was done and over in mere seconds. John gasped and Sherlock jolted as if he had received an electric shock, his lips parted in surprise.

The woman's body fell to the bed, lifeless, blood pooling rapidly, soaking into the pure white linen- obviously picked to better stage the scene- and the man kept thrusting.

"Sorry. I just…I can't." John murmured and stood, leaving the office, and firmly closing the door behind him.

* * *

"So, you and the Freak? _Really_?"

John drew in a deep breath and paused outside the men's lavatory, staring across the hall at Sergeant Donovan. He felt a water droplet snake it's way down his neck and beneath his collar, eliciting a shudder that had nothing to do with the look of disgust in the woman's eyes opposite him. After leaving Lestrade's office, he'd headed straight to the loo and splashed cold water on his face and neck, trying to regulate his breathing and not be sick with what he had seen.

He'd seen violence before, dealt with rape victims as a doctor, and viewed dead bodies mutilated so horrifically they couldn't be identified, even by dental records- but there had been something very disturbing about that video. There was something horribly distressing about seeing a woman killed so callously during sex that just…just bothered him. His insides were squirming and John felt that gnawing ache in his gut that said he wished he'd never seen what he had, but knew he would have nightmares about it later.

"I think we've already been over this." John replied curtly, still on edge, not willing to deal with Donovan's shit at the moment.

"He's in there getting off on that, you know." Her eyes slid down John's body and her lips twisted in revulsion. "Just makes me wonder about you. What he's got on you to make you stick around and put up with him?" She said, making it obvious she thought John was some sort of sick fuck who got off on blood and gore, just as she suspected Sherlock did, and Sherlock catered to this in some perverted way.

"For the record, it's really none of your business." John said starting to walk away, feeling anger heat his blood, making his pulse throb in his ears as he understood exactly what she was implying. "And just so you know, he's in there trying to get clues that no one _here_ was able to get. Not getting off on it."

"So you think." Donovan crossed her arms and surveyed John with something like pity. "He probably tricked you into this and even now he's shamming you. He doesn't have feelings, emotions, like normal people. He _uses_ people. I've seen him do it tons of times and now he's using you. You just can't see it." Her voice rang with conviction and John turned fully around to stare at her. Her statement hit just a little too close to the mark, at least concerning the beginning of his and Sherlock's relationship, but he knew Sherlock wasn't using him now.

"Our relationship isn't any concern of yours-" John began heatedly, saying to hell with it, to hell with everyone's opinions and looks and bloody insinuations, and willing to say what the fuck had been on his mind from the first moment everyone looked at him with sick knowing in their eyes. He had _had it_.

"Well said, John." Sherlock said briskly, sweeping between them, making John blink in surprise and Sally roll her eyes.

"Get anything?" she asked, her voice making it obvious she thought he hadn't.

"I gave my report to Lestrade. Come, John." Sherlock said, his eyes glued to his phone, hurriedly scrolling through a database from the looks of it. John started to follow him to the elevator but Donovan wasn't done yet.

"Remember what I said, John. You know I'm right." She smirked as she turned away and John clenched his jaw to keep from yelling out something truly horrible at her.

John stewed as he and Sherlock rode down to the ground floor, his thoughts revolving around everything that had happened since Sherlock had posted that photo on his blog, all the looks, the bets, the things people said. He was unable to look anyone in the eyes as they left Scotland Yard, afraid if he caught someone's eye at that moment he would make a scene- and he and Sherlock were on a case.

* * *

"It bothers you."

"Hmm?" John started, jerking out of his unpleasant reverie as the cab pulled away from Scotland Yard. Sherlock's eyes were trained on his mobile, investigating something about tattoos- John had noticed the second man in the video had had a distinctive tattoo on his upper thigh. Apparently, Sherlock had found a link. "What did you say?"

"What people say about you. About your relationship with me. It bothers you."

Sherlock knew everyone's opinion was starting to wear on John and frankly, he thought it was a mistake he had taken his blogger with him that morning. He had known the officers would continue to openly speculate about their new relationship and what Donovan had said- Sherlock had heard most of it from down the hall- had unnerved John. That much was obvious. It was possible, if John were subjected to many more comments and looks, he would have more and more second thoughts, realize being with Sherlock was not worth the embarrassment, and call off their relationship.

John blinked at Sherlock and frowned. "It's not…not really, no. It's just…" he sighed heavily and shook his head. "Forget it."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and stared unseeingly at his phone. His heart was galloping away and his palms were sweaty. What was the point in _waiting_ for John to call their relationship off? What would that gain him? A few more days with John? A few more weeks? What was the _point_ if he already knew how this would _end_?

His heart gave a great lurch but he dispassionately ignored it.

"It was only to be expected this couldn't last long." Sherlock said calmly, his face indifferent, and John felt something inside him freeze.

"What're you talking about?"

"This John. Us."

"What about us?" John was genuinely bemused. What was Sherlock talking about? Who had said anything about their relationship not lasting long? They had barely been in it two weeks!

"It's one thing for you to have sex with me when no one knows about it, when it's just sex and nothing else. It's quite another situation entirely for everyone to be aware of it. It changes their perception of you which in turn makes you uncomfortable. You don't want people knowing you are in a homosexual relationship with me. You never did, which was why you were so upset when I posted that picture on your blog, and while I thought you would grow accustomed to the idea, that hasn't changed. You regret my informing everyone and wish we were not in this relationship. Perhaps you feel you owe me something because you were originally keen on the idea, however the response from everyone has changed your mind. Obvious."

"Wh- Sherlock, _no_. That's not…not at all what I'm... You're _way_ off-"

"We're here." Sherlock interrupted, opening the cab door and stepping out in front of the flat, not bothering to hold the door for John, who scrambled out after him, head reeling.

As soon as John was out of the cab, Sherlock brushed past him and climbed back in.

"There's no reason for you to accompany me today. I'm sure it will be an easy case."

John blinked, his head spinning and felt as if he had just been slapped. Sherlock _always_ wanted him to come on a case. Even if he were just a sounding board for Sherlock to talk to, a wonderful and much-needed replacement for Sherlock's skull, Sherlock wanted him there. He was back-up, an audience for Sherlock's narcissistic genius.

And had Sherlock just broken up with him? Wait, what?

"Easy case? Snuff films? Not to mention- you said Lestrade thought there was a connection to human trafficking." John licked his lips and shook his head. "Sherlock, you can't just expect me to-"

"Of course I can, John. You've had a long week and need to relax. You said so yourself just yesterday."

"Wh- Sherlock, I don't _mind_- I'm not that tired-"

"Of course not, John." Sherlock said drily as he glanced back down at his phone, casually dismissing John. "Please, don't trouble yourself. I will do perfectly well without your assistance. Don't wait up."

And he was gone, slamming the door and informing the cabbie to drive away, leaving John mentally staggering and confused.

He stood and stared at the retreating cab, running through their conversation again, trying to make sense of it.

He didn't have much success.


	5. Chapter 5

**We all knew where this was going. I'm sorry it's taken me longer than normal to post for this story. Enjoy :)**

* * *

"You and Sherlock back already?"

John looked up at the sound of their landlady's puzzled question, her head quizzically poking out of her flat. "The way Sherlock was shouting this morning about the case I thought you'd be gone for days." She scowled. "Was it too boring? Tell him I won't tolerate my sitting room wall being shot at again just because he's disappointed! I never got that paint scrubbed off and the holes were-"

"Um, no. No, not boring at all, actually. He just…he went on ahead." John replied, head still reeling from…whatever it was that had happened in the cab.

"He went without you?" Mrs. Hudson asked, coming out of her flat, frowning in surprise. "That's a bit odd."

"Not really." John mumbled. "He likes to work alone sometimes." He cleared his throat. "I'll just…be upstairs." He smiled at Mrs. Hudson, who remained looking unconvinced, and took the stairs two at a time.

He'd been such an idiot.

_You don't want people knowing you are in a homosexual relationship with me. You never did, which was why you were so upset when I posted that picture on your blog…_

Is that what Sherlock had really thought? Jesus. He'd missed all the signs that something was wrong with Sherlock, dismissing them, believing the genius was bored, he wanted a case, nothing serious was the matter except Sherlock being his usual, sulky petulant self- while all the time he'dbeen doing something to cause those brooding looks and hadn't realized it.

Sherlock always took these great leaps of genius, leaving John struggling to catch up. Once he caught up, though, he knew Sherlock had gotten this all wrong. Very wrong.

_You regret my informing everyone and wish we were not in this relationship. Perhaps you feel you owe me something because you were originally keen on the idea, however the response from everyone has changed your mind._

Of course everyone's stupid, narrow-minded opinions haven't changed my mind! John huffed as he angrily cleared away the nasty experiments in the kitchen and set about making himself a proper breakfast- now lunch. As if what other people say about Sherlock has ever mattered to me. If I listened to everyone I never would have taken the flat, never would have even spoken to him after that first night.

"If he wasn't such a child and would give me time to _explain_ myself," John groused as he set the kettle on to boil, slamming the poor, battered thing down rather hard. "Like a rational, normal _adult_-"

"What was that?"

John jumped and whirled to see Mrs. Hudson in the doorway, a pained expression on her face as her hands hovered over her ears.

"Sorry," he muttered shamefacedly, knowing he had been stomping and banging things about too much. Usually that was Sherlock's method of showing his displeasure- and making sure everyone in the flat knew about it. "I didn't mean to bother you."

"It's fine, dear. Nothing _you_ could do would bother me after dealing with Sherlock. That boy can be a menace, sometimes. You may want to turn the stove on, though." She gestured to the cold hob, smiling slightly and John's shoulders slumped.

"Thanks." He turned and flicked the switch then busied himself with his lunch. "Do you want me to fix some for you?"

"I'll have a cuppa, if you don't mind." Mrs. Hudson said, taking over the tea-making, peering closely at the tea bags to ascertain they actually contained tea before adding them to the cups. "Is there something on your mind?"

"Uh, no. Nothing."

John knew Sherlock routinely traipsed downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson's advice on any number of relationship things- once the internet had failed him so spectacularly- but John never sought out her opinion. Not only had he not known the woman so long as Sherlock had, he wasn't used to taking advice from the smiling, elderly little lady downstairs about his homosexual love life with his flatmate. It struck him as a bit, well, odd. The one time Mrs. Hudson had given him advice it had been unsolicited, though very helpful, as it had served as an impetus for he and Sherlock getting together.

Mrs. Hudson snorted delicately and John glanced over at her.

"I know when something's wrong. I may be old but I'm not a fool."

John laughed and continued making his sandwich. He and Mrs. Hudson lapsed into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the bubbling of the water, the movements of John's knife as he spread mayo on his bread, and the steady ticking of the clock.

Finally, John sighed and set down his knife. "He thinks I'm…ashamed of him."

"Are you?"

"What? Of course not, _no_! I've never been ashamed of being with Sherlock."

"Whatever gave him the idea then?"

_It's one thing for you to have sex with me when no one knows about it, when it's just sex and nothing else. It's quite another situation entirely for everyone to be aware of it. It changes their perception of you which in turn makes you uncomfortable._

"I…haven't been the best…the best boyfriend lately." John admitted, accepting a steaming cup of tea from his landlady. "He thinks I'm…I'm afraid to be gay…afraid of people knowing we're in a…a homosexual ah, relationship together. That I'm ashamed of being with him. Of what people think about us being together."

"Does this have anything to do with that picture on your blog?"

"It's _private_." John explained, gesturing vaguely. "I don't want everyone we meet to be imagining us shagging each other's brains out. Giving us those…those looks. Like they know what we look like naked after just- well, I guess they know what _I_ look like post-shag. It doesn't seem to bother Sherlock- what _does_ bother Sherlock-"

"Thinking you're ashamed of him."

John stopped his angry tirade and looked at Mrs. Hudson, his eyes sad. "I'm not…I don't want him thinking that just because I want a little…discretion." He snorted. "I would have thought _he_ would be the one to…"

"People will always talk, John." Mrs. Hudson said firmly, ignoring his pained expression. "And think. You're not going to be stopping them and no matter how the two of you would have came out to everyone, the results would have been the same."

"Not as spectacularly obvious-"

"But still the same. The betting pool, the looks, the talk. It would have all been there and would still have bothered you."

"I can't stop it bothering me." John sighed, exasperated. In the army, he'd been known for his exploits with women and he hadn't really cared. Those had been nameless women who knew what their time together was about and he'd never seen them once the shagging was done. It had been harmless fun and something to joke about with his friends. It was _different_ with Sherlock.

"If you don't think Sherlock's worth it-"Mrs. Hudson began.

"I never said that!" John cut her off indignantly. "Is it just so much to ask- to bloody well _ask_- that not everyone we know take such an avid interest in our sex life?"

"I suppose that would make your working conditions a bit awkward."

"You have no idea." John smiled ruefully. "There was actually a betting pool down the Yard about us."

There was a flash of something in Mrs. Hudson's eyes that made John pause.

"Oh, no. Don't tell me you-"

"I'm sure you'll think of something." Mrs. Hudson said quickly. "Of course, I would recommend you talk to Sherlock about all this."

It was John's turn to snort. "He didn't exactly give me a chance before he threw a hissy fit like a two year old."

"That's what Sherlock does best, dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Best get used to it."

* * *

Despite what Sherlock had said, John stayed awake until well past midnight, irrationally worried about him and waiting on him to return. He was afraid to text, in case Sherlock was undercover or sneaking about- though he knew Sherlock was smart enough to turn off his message alert when he was being covert. John, however, was paranoid enough to worry that he would be the reason Sherlock would mess up and get himself hurt, or killed.

He watched crap telly and updated his blog. He frowned when he realized that commenting had been disabled on his "shagadelic" photo (the things that came out of his sister's mouth would mortify him long into the future) and he tried to remember when he had done that. He hadn't…surely he would remember doing it. That meant…Sherlock. Why would Sherlock have done that? It was entirely bizarre because he'd seemed to take a rather odd pleasure in reading what people had to say about himself and John and the reactions to their relationship-

_It bothers you. What people say about you. About your relationship with me. It bothers you…You don't want people knowing you are in a homosexual relationship with me. You never did, which was why you were so upset when I posted that picture on your blog, and while I thought you would grow accustomed to the idea, that hasn't changed…. _

John sighed heavily, rubbing his tired eyes, and re-enabled commenting, scrolling through the few that trickled in shortly thereafter, pinging into his inbox as he watched more telly. He laughed weakly at a few, shaking his head, and coming to a conclusion:

He was an idiot.

Who cared what everyone around them was thinking about their love life? In the end, what did it matter? He wanted to be with Sherlock. _That_ was all that mattered and he needed to man up and stop acting like an embarrassed teenager with their first boyfriend. Sherlock deserved better than that.

The rest of the world could go fuck themselves.

* * *

John jerked awake with a start, blinking blearily about the darkened flat. No Sherlock.

He groaned, realizing it was 2:15 in the morning, and hauled himself into their bedroom, steering clear of Sherlock's tainted left side of the bed. He curled himself under the covers, his phone lying beside his pillow. He'd known it was a long shot waiting up on Sherlock anyway. He still felt on edge, knowing Sherlock was out in greater London somewhere without proper back-up.

John shifted into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes. He was being irrational. Sherlock had survived thirty plus years without him at his back. He'd be fine.

He'd be fine.

Right.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't back the next morning.

John stood and stared at the empty sitting room, mind working furiously (_Would you even know how that felt?_ his internal Sherlock snarked) wondering if he should be upset or if this was something expected.

Well, it's not that easy a case then, is it? John thought, as he distractedly made breakfast and tried not to think about what sort of trouble Sherlock could've gotten himself in to without him there to help. What if something had gone wrong and no one knew Sherlock was missing- and John did nothing?

_Where are you? JW_

There was no reply and John sighed, pocketing his phone and preparing to leave the flat for work. He stopped by downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson to call him as soon as Sherlock got in. He could tell the news that Sherlock hadn't messaged him or returned worried Mrs. Hudson and this only increased the gnawing concern in John's gut.

He tried to smile confidently as he left and, as he walked to work, thought of a few choice words to yell at Sherlock when he got back- not _if_, _when_- about idiotic consulting detectives being stupid for not letting the people who cared about them know they were ok. He and Sherlock were always having these sorts of conversations, Sherlock being unable to understand simple courtesies like personal space and when not to snap at their clients.

Eight hours later, Sherlock was still not back.

_Sherlock, at least let me know you're ok. JW_

_Even if you're busy. Just a line to let me know you're not in danger. JW_

John looked at his latest texts and knew he sounded pathetic but…he was genuinely worried about him. He hadn't heard from Sherlock all day, he hadn't been back at the flat, and Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard a thing. He was a few hours away from calling Mycroft- but that was a last resort when all other avenues of enquiry were dried up. For all he knew, Sherlock was absorbed in the case and not checking his phone.

As he fiddled on his laptop and stared at the telly screen, John worked himself up into a good strop, imagining all the things he would say to Sherlock when he got back. He had originally been intending to apologize, force them to talk this out, explain himself, then make love to Sherlock and tell him he'd been an idiot for thinking he was ashamed of him. Now, he was thinking of ranting first about consulting detectives who deduced wrongly and then took it out on their unsuspecting flatmates-turned-lovers without a care to how that would go down and ran about with complete disregard to their own personal safety.

At least, that was the gist of what John wanted to yell. It varied as the hours continued to pass and there was still no message from Sherlock and no consulting detective rushing up the stairs.

He paced the sitting room, alternatively knowing he was being irrational and then convinced Sherlock was in danger. He tried to reason with his worry. After all, he and Sherlock had been absent from the flat for days without returning, busy working on a case- but they had been together, then. This was different.

Sherlock was alone.

John let out a worried breath and looked down at Baker Street, now quite at this time of night, and prayed Sherlock was safe.

* * *

The blaring ringtone jerked John awake and he blinked, momentarily lost, wondering why he wasn't in his bed- before he realized he was still kipped on the sofa, the flat darkened, the telly the only source of flickering light. His phone was ringing and vibrating it's way across the table and he lunged for it, his stomach plummeting to his toes when he saw who it was.

"Hello?"

"John!" Lestrade didn't even wait for John to answer before launching into the reason for his call. "Sherlock's missing."

John's heart took a sharp dive, all vestiges of sleep evaporating, and he stood up. "What happened?"

"There was supposed to be this stake-out. Routine. He found the house our filmmakers were in but didn't tell us- well, you know how he is. Running off after he gets his brilliant deduction and leaving us all behind. He didn't text you?"

"No," John said, grabbing his coat and pulling it on. "When did he-"

"Last night-"

"He's been missing since _last night_?" John asked angrily, hopping on one foot as he struggled into his shoes, trapping the phone between his cheek and shoulder as Lestrade huffed.

"We didn't know! Like I said, he ran off without telling us and I thought he'd contact you and I'd be hearing-"

"Right. Where is he?"

Lestrade paused and for those few seconds, John's heart stopped in absolute dread. He knew what Lestrade would say before the DI opened his mouth.

"Haven't a clue, mate."


	6. Chapter 6

**So sorry to have left this for longer than I meant. I hated to do that when the last chapter was a cliffhanger. Hope this makes up for it. Next chapter: John explains communication to Sherlock (not that he's the exact expert but...these two need to start somewhere).**

**Warning: This may contain a slight trigger for those squicked out by rape. No actual rape takes place, but it's talked about. Remember, Sherlock is dealing with the people who made the snuff film.**

* * *

Sherlock blinked blood from his eyes and his tongue snaked out to tease his upper lip as he concentrated on freeing his hands from the gleaming cuffs. Unoriginal to handcuff him to a chair and then leave him alone, but he hadn't expected anything else from such morons. It had been so simple to find the house they were in- ask the homeless network and they could find out anything, for the right price. According to his source, they had been in their current location for over two months and rumors were starting in the neighborhood about strange noises and multiple comings and goings at odd hours during the night. They had avoided exposure by frequently moving- and if they were smart, they would move soon. As soon as he had received the information, Sherlock had acted, knowing the filmmakers would be moving and intent on catching them before they were given such a chance.

Frankly, it was galling that he had been captured by the goons in the first place but he had, and been bashed in the head very thoroughly for it.

His fingers, slick with blood, slipped against the pick he had managed to pry from his coat sleeve. This would be much easier if his head would stop making the room spin at a sickening speed. Sherlock didn't have to be John Watson to know he was badly injured and in need of medical care. His entire skull throbbed, but the pain was centered to the side, high behind his left ear, when the lead pipe had made a sickening, ringing contact with his skull.

_Concussion, possible fracture, blurred vision, equilibrium off._ Sherlock tried to make a diagnosis but couldn't _concentrate_ long enough to…

Closing his eyes didn't help- it just enforced the feeling his body was spinning, spinning, spinning at a dizzying speed, flying about the room chaotically. When he opened his eyes, the room lurched horribly to the right and Sherlock's body followed the momentum as if it were really happening. If he hadn't been handcuffed to the chair, he would have fallen off long ago, unable to sit straight as the room took a sickening and sudden dive to the left.

Sherlock gasped, his fingers stilling on the pick, and tried valiantly not to be sick. He would _not_ be sick after being abducted by these imbeciles. It was too embarrassing to contemplate.

Finally, the tidal wave of pain and movement was over and, breathing heavily, he set to work on the handcuffs again. They were proving trickier than he had anticipated and he wondered if his motor skills were off as well, but he was simply unable to fully ascertain it.

Footsteps informed him his captors were coming back and he sighed, knowing what was going to happen. They had already been to his room to taunt him, crowing over their victory over the Great Sherlock Holmes in a very predictable way. It was almost as if they were following some cheesy movie script. One of them was obviously a fan and read John's blog because he'd referenced certain things from John's writings and been rather more pleased than the other that they'd caught Sherlock.

* * *

"The great Sherlock Holmes." The man had taunted gleefully as Sherlock gasped and tried to will his traitorous body to stop playing games with him. Obviously, he knew the room wasn't really turning on its sides and playing topsy turvy every few minutes but his mind refused to acknowledge this. "Mmm…those cheekbones." Sherlock felt the man's cool fingers touch his cheekbone in a mockery of caress. "So beautiful-"

"He'll have told people!"

There was a derisive snort. "We checked his phone. No sent messages or calls and we've already disabled it, so no GPS tracking. Why not take this opportunity? Do you know how much _money_ this could make us? He's famous enough and just _look_ at him…"

There was silence as they stared at Sherlock and seemed to have an internal debate, trying to decide if the risk was worth the substantial reward.

"You've already bloodied him up-"

"That won't matter. We clean him up a bit- just a bit. The blood'll be exciting to some people. We can charge extra for it. This video could go for a couple hundred quid."

Sherlock had known they were talking about recording his rape and murder and then selling it. He'd blocked out the momentary fear this had inspired because he firmly planned on not being around when that occurred. If he could just will his mind to stop making him feel as if he were on a merry-go-round…

After the men had left, he'd used every bit of concentration he had in order to work smoothly with his lock pick.

He hadn't had much success.

The door opened and Sherlock watched five men come in. He blinked hard and his vision cleared momentarily for him to know there were only two, one carrying a video camera and tripod and the other the one who'd been so fascinated by him earlier. The fan. He couldn't see clearly enough to adequately deduce anything about them and this, more than anything, made him feel defenseless.

Though not completely. He wouldn't make this easy for them.

"We want you struggling a little." The man calmly explained, setting up the camera directly across from where Sherlock sat and flicking it on. The red light blurred then split into four different beams of light that swam sickening in front of Sherlock's eyes. "It makes for a more believable scene. Feel free to scream. The better you act, the nicer we'll kill you."

The other- The Fan- smiled politely at Sherlock. "Make us a good video and we'll kill you quick and painless. Be stoic and resist and we'll draw it out, record it, and still kill you in the end. Your choice, darling."

He walked closer and his fingers caressed Sherlock's cheek again, his thumb rubbing along the ridge gently. "I've never had someone as pretty as you. I'll make you enjoy this, sweetheart…before I make you bleed."

Sherlock reacted, kicking out and connecting solidly with the man's testicles twice in quick succession. He relished the high-pitched, agonized scream that erupted from the man's mouth before The Fan punched him, making Sherlock's head jerk to the side, and the room lurched at a dramatic angle. Sherlock cried out in pain as this made his head explode in fresh, throbbing agony that blurred his vision and brought tears, unbidden, to his eyes. It felt as if the entire room had lurched onto it's side and his body followed the momentum his mind was forcing him to feel. He slumped to the side, his arms the only thing keeping him in his chair, and fumbled with, before dropping, his lock pick. It tinkled to the floor but no one noticed.

The Fan grasped Sherlock's hair and yanked his head back- pain shot through his skull and Sherlock bit his lip to keep from crying out again. He refused to give the bastards the satisfaction. He gasped, loud and painfully, as he man twisted his hair mercilessly, seemingly determined to make him scream. Across the room, the camera captured Sherlock's agonized face and the other man fiddled with the switches to zoom in on him.

"Do you like this, darling?" The man grunted, panting heavily in pain, fisting his hair again, grabbing strands that were part of the painful knot on his scalp, twisting viscously, harder and harder, yanking again and again.

Sherlock's vision splintered and he screamed.

The shot that erupted in the room was loud and left Sherlock's ears ringing. He blearily blinked, trying to clear his vision and determine what was going on as the man behind him was suddenly gone. Another shot, then another, then a brownish blur was walking towards him and warm hands were running over him, frantically moving about his body, assessing injuries, hissing in sympathy.

_John._

Each time he blinked, Sherlock's vision cleared for a fraction of a second and, though this made the room dip and weave, he kept at it, determined to see John as he knelt in front of him, his eyes distant and businesslike- his doctor face, Sherlock thought vaguely. He felt John wipe blood from his face, his fingers gentle and sure as his short, calloused fingers carded slowly through his hair, searching for the pulsing wound Sherlock could feel on his scalp. Sherlock winced and cried out softly when John's fingers unerringly found it and John stood and leaned over him, gently but insistently touching it, making sure of what he was looking at.

He crouched down again in front of Sherlock and made Sherlock meet his eyes, which he did with great effort. He checked for dilated pupils, made him follow the movement of his finger and his lips pressed thinly together at the responses Sherlock gave. Sherlock knew they weren't good, but not life-threatening. He'd felt worse. His vision swam as more people flooded into the room and he distantly heard Lestrade curse and Donovan answering back, her voice grating in his ears.

John ignored them all and when he was sure that Sherlock was ok, he sighed, his cheeks puffing out. "You're an idiot." He said, his voice shaking only slightly.

Then he cupped Sherlock's cheek and gently kissed him, his lips the barest, softest press against Sherlock's own, as if he were afraid of breaking him. Sherlock felt the jolt of surprise all the way to his toes. He was aware of the people who were watching them, the way John's lips ghosted against his own, the way his head was throbbing- Sherlock was aware of it all and it was too much. He wanted to tell John to stop because the kiss was making his head throb harder but then John was pulling away, his eyes worried.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry. That wasn't good. I know better than that. Sorry."

John breathed in the smell of blood and sweat, grit and gunpowder and underneath all that, almost hidden but still perceptible, was the unique smell of Sherlock. Tears pricked his eyes as he smelled that familiar, wonderful smell that he had been afraid- for the last few terrible hours- he would never experience again.

"Are you ok? Did I hurt you?" John's worried eyes zoomed around Sherlock's face, concerned.

"John." Sherlock swallowed, unsure. "I'm fine." His voice sounded slurred even to his own ears and the way John looked boded not well. He turned around and ordered an ambulance in his Captain Watson voice. He was obeyed immediately, an officer hurrying from the room.

John sighed, turning back to Sherlock. "Thank god." His fingers glided along Sherlock's cheek and he smiled, his eyes reflecting such love and relief that Sherlock had to look away. He blinked around at the assembled Yarders, many of whom were blatantly watching their exchange in favor of cleaning up the dead bodies John had produced.

"We have an audience." He reminded John in a low, slurred voice. John turned to look at the people who were neglecting their jobs in favor of watching their dramatic reunion unfold.

"I wonder how any of them still have their job," he mused drily, turning back to Sherlock and pressing a gentle kiss against his nose, which seemed the one place on his face that wouldn't cause him any pain. He seemed unable to keep himself from touching Sherlock, as if needing reassurance he was ok. "No wonder nothing ever gets solved in this city."

"I…thought you were…ashamed of us." Sherlock heard himself slurring, totally against his will and without running the sentence through his filter. It was so unlike him he was shocked and couldn't help but wonder what John thought of it.

John looked confused for all of five seconds before Sherlock saw understanding sweep across his face. Sherlock blinked, blinked, blinked, then he watched utter heartbreak chase on the heels of the confusion.

"I knew it. Stupid git. I would never be ashamed of you." John shook his head, and rubbed Sherlock's cheek, accidentally slicking more blood across it and both he and Sherlock winced. "I love you."

John made it sound so simple. He loved Sherlock- how could he be embarrassed of him?

There had been very few times in his life that Sherlock felt stupid because he had made a mistake, miscalculated, made the wrong deduction. This was one of those times.

Sherlock continued his blink, blink, blinking to clear his vision, his lips parting and then John was suddenly the recipient of a heated kiss- which was too fast a movement for Sherlock to accomplish. His mind rebelled, forcing the equilibrium of his body forward, and he fell atop John, the two of them suddenly sprawled across the gritty concrete. John's arms were around his body, cradling him from further injury, and Sherlock knew he should be mortified to still be handcuffed, injured, having botched a simple stake-out, lying atop his boyfriend without any grace at all, the great consulting detective brought low…except he wasn't.

John chuckled reluctantly, shushing him, his hands gently embracing him and Sherlock hoped he wouldn't be sick. He didn't think his pride could handle vomiting at the crime scene. He could feel John's body shaking ever so slightly beneath him as his body came down from the prolonged adrenaline rush it had maintained while he was searching for Sherlock.

"You two are mad."

John craned his neck so he was staring at Lestrade upside down. "I wasn't always like this." He protested. "Grab that lockpick and-"

"Yeah." Lestrade strode to the chair and retrieved Sherlock's lock pick, setting to work. "Yeah, I'm not surprised. Sherlock's enough to drive anyone mental."

There was a click and Sherlock's hands were suddenly free. He allowed them to fall to his sides and rested his head against John's chest, concentrating on his breathing, feeling himself getting closer and closer to being sick. He should not have kissed John- but he'd had almost no control over it.

Maybe he was more injured than he'd originally thought.

"You weren't supposed to do that." Lestrade was saying ruefully, gesturing at the dead bodies that littered the room. He scratched the back of his neck and looked around. "I'll need to take you down for questioning. Paperwork-"

"That's fine." John would gladly go to jail for killing the bastard he'd seen looming over his Sherlock. He'd heard Sherlock's scream as they were going up the stairs and his blood had run cold. Whatever was being done to Sherlock in that room to make him scream, had earned the person responsible a death sentence in John's eyes. He hadn't hesitated.

He had no regrets.

* * *

When the paramedics came, Sherlock clutched John's jumper and refused to let go, even when John patted his hands and tried to explain that he had to go with Lestrade. Sherlock clung tighter and John had chuckled weakly, then looked over his shoulder at someone Sherlock couldn't see.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was in the ambulance, hooked to an IV, and John was holding his hand. He must have looked vaguely questioning, though he seemed too drowsy to be able to summon up the strength, because John snorted and offered him the obvious explanation Sherlock would have reached on his own had his head not been split open.

"Mycroft."


	7. Chapter 7

**A thousand apologies for leaving this chapter for so long! I got involved in writing another story and *shrugs*. I'm back now and the next chapter is already written and just needs some editing before it will be up. Thanks for reading and reviewing!**

* * *

John leaned against the wall in the private hospital room (having an elder brother who _was_ the British Government came with all sorts of perks- not the least of which included private accommodations in overcrowded hospitals and getting one's boyfriend off murder charges) and glared as Sherlock peevishly received stitches to his scalp. He had been conscious enough once the ambulance reached the hospital to insist, with speech still slightly slurred, that only _John_ give him stitches as he was his doctor. This had been vetoed by everyone present, including the aforementioned Doctor Watson, and after going through multiple tests and scans and being diagnosed as having a severe concussion, Sherlock had finally been forced to allow a strange doctor to stitch him up.

It was John's glare, which was truly breathtaking in intensity and execution, that kept Sherlock quiet when the doctor- whom he'd deduced after much blink, blink, blinking as cheating on his wife with her own sister _and_ the sister's husband- informed him he'd be kept overnight for observation. Sherlock humphed but was unable to roll his eyes without feeling overwhelming dizziness and an urgent need to be sick. He had valiantly fought against being sick through all the bright lights and motion that had accompanied his arrival at the hospital, but had lost the battle during the tests that followed.

He'd only _just_ managed to give John a brief warning before being horribly sick over the side of his gurney as he was wheeled out of the MRI room. John had held his hand and rubbed his back through the full-bodied heaves that had left Sherlock even dizzier and sicker than before. Sherlock had been mortified but unable to control his transport which insisted on vomiting grotesquely over and over again. John had gently supported Sherlock's sweaty forehead over the plastic bucket a squeamish nurse had thrust at him and shushed him as if Sherlock were a small child.

Now, laying on his hospital bed, head pounding, and still feeling nauseous, Sherlock closed his eyes and was pleased when the room spun only slightly.

"I don't need to be here." He snapped weakly, keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn't throw up again. "I could do this at the flat. You're a doctor. You could _observe_ me."

"How can you be snappy after getting bashed in the head? Only you." John quipped tightly, his voice holding in his barely controlled rage. "Don't ever do anything like that again. I will kill you myself, Sherlock."

"That would defeat the purpose, John."

"_Sherlock_."

"_John_." Sherlock replied sarcastically, keeping his eyes closed but managing to instill the accompanying eye roll nevertheless.

John scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to keep himself awake, his adrenaline long since having worn off and now he was just bone-tired. He slumped into a chair one of the nurses had brought in and closed his eyes, sighing wearily. Sherlock cracked his eyes open fractionally and, after the four John's spiraled about and finally coalesced into one, Sherlock felt a prickle of guilt at how _tired_ John looked. His face was deeply lined, eyebrows drawn together, mouth turned down and pulled tight. Sherlock closed his eyes again and shifted a bit on the bed, keeping his pounding head stationary, knotting the sheets in his fingers.

"John…I-"

"Not now, Sherlock. We'll…talk about it later. Just get some rest." John opened his eyes and stared at the pale, ethereal young man lying on the hospital bed. He took a deep breath and tried to control his temper which was starting to get the better of him the longer he looked at Sherlock and catalogued his injuries…injuries he shouldn't have gotten in the first place. They could talk about this later, after Sherlock had gotten better and preferably when John had had time to step back and get control of himself.

Sherlock made a feeble sounding noise of derision and waved a hand dismissively. "There's nothing to talk about anyway. I was simply going to apologize for mistaking you."

John clenched his jaw and tried counting down from 10, trying to keep control of himself…

"It's all sorted and worked out in the end. Nothing to _talk_ about."

"It was fucking stupid for you to go off on your own!" John burst out angrily, all the worry and panic and fear he'd felt over Sherlock's disappearance and the emotions he'd tamped down while searching for the crazy man he loved shoving their way to the forefront. He didn't even care if the nurses heard him, or the police stationed down the hall, or even Mycroft sodding Holmes heard him yelling at Sherlock. He literally saw red over Sherlock's flippant attitude over something so obviously important.

"Even if you were angry with me- even if you were fucking _furious_- you shouldn't have gone off on your own! You're supposed to be clever, Sherlock, but that was one of the stupidest things you've ever done!"

"I needed space to think." Sherlock said in a calm, low voice that only seemed to add fuel to the fire that was John's anger.

"_You needed space to think_?" John parroted, and Sherlock frowned at the blatant scorn in his voice. "Don't give me that! Needing space to think is- is going out for air or…or going to the next room or maybe taking a break from talking for a while not…not…not going after a dangerous sex ring that makes snuff films and almost getting raped and killed! Ok? There's a…there's a difference, Sherlock." John's voice broke and he swore and stood up, turning away, his hands on his hips, his entire posture radiating anger and hurt. "I realize you were upset and I know I was the reason for that but…you should have _told_ me. You should have _talked_ to me, not…not stormed away like a child in a snit and gotten yourself in trouble."

The words fell into the room, heavy and piercing…and very true. Sherlock clenched his jaw and refused to answer John. It sounded cowardly _now_ to say that he hadn't wanted to face hearing John admit that yes, he was ashamed of him, yes, he wanted their relationship to be over and see relief writ all over John's face that Sherlock was ending the relationship for him. He had wanted distance from John, wanted a quick, clean break and then to go about his life as if nothing were wrong.

Sherlock heard John sigh again and felt his calloused fingers rub over the back of his hand that was still twisting the sheets.

"I'm sorry I shouted." John whispered and then Sherlock felt those same fingers gently trace his cheekbone, a quick swipe that left his skin tingling. "We'll…talk about this later. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

John cleared his throat in the silence. "Don't you want to know how we found you?" he asked, and Sherlock could _hear_ the slight, apologetic smile he'd be wearing.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes to find John standing over him, his eyes rather sad and remorseful.

"I'm assuming you didn't deduce it considering your head state." John said wryly and Sherlock smirked, twining his fingers with John's and squeezing. John took the hint and launched into his story.

"Well, after you left me at the flat, I was worried. I tried texting you but didn't get any answer, which made me really suspicious. Lestrade called earlier- well, I guess last night, now and told me you'd disappeared." John squeezed Sherlock's hand and there was so much emotion in that simple touch that Sherlock closed his eyes again. "I was about to leave and go to the Yard but Mycroft was already outside. He took us to the station and we had a meeting about where you'd gone and what we were going to do. Apparently, Mycroft had footage showing you going down a particular street, but after that he lost you. Your brother isn't god after all." John snorted and Sherlock managed a smug smile.

"We wished he was though, because no cameras meant we couldn't find you. He'd searched all the surrounding ones and it was definite you'd stayed on that street. We just had to figure out which house you'd gone into. We all packed up and headed there but…there weren't any signs and we were trying not to tip anyone off about what we were doing. It was all really covert. I happened to notice there was a man on the corner- one of your homeless network- and he recognized me but didn't want to talk because of all the coppers around. I managed to get him to tell me which house you went in." John shrugged and Sherlock glanced down at the hand that he was still holding. The knuckles were split and there were traces of blood- not John's blood. It was a shame he was really injured because Sherlock felt only the faintest of traces of arousal at the sight.

"Once he told me, we went in and, well…you know the rest." John finished uncomfortably and Sherlock blearily stared at John who, after glancing around as if checking that they were still alone in the room, kept talking.

"We went in and no one was around. The place looked deserted and we were afraid…we'd maybe gotten the wrong house or….or they'd moved on. Me and Lestrade started sneaking upstairs where the upper rooms were and the others had searched the bottom half and were searching the basement when we heard…"John broke off and cleared his throat, his hand tightening on Sherlock's again. "We heard you. Screaming."

His eyes rose to connect with Sherlock's and no words were needed. It was there for Sherlock to read and deduce- John's surprise, panic, and overwhelming fury when he'd heard his screams. Something warm settled pleasantly in Sherlock's stomach as he thought of John's murderous rage.

After a few minutes, Sherlock closed his eyes again. "Three shots?" he chided and John smiled ruefully.

"The first was quick and clean. The other bastard moved behind the camera at just the right moment. I'd have shot him the first time otherwise." There was firm conviction in his voice and Sherlock had no doubt of John's ability. "As it was….he was grazed and down….when I shot him again."

Sherlock opened surprised eyes and stared at John. There were no regrets, no shame, no misgivings over what he'd done. Those men had meant to harm Sherlock. He had killed them.

No words were needed.


	8. Chapter 8

**This is a birthday present for the amazingly talented MapleleafCameo. Her stories always leave me in awe and I wish I were as talented as she is. Seriously, go read her works. It will be the best favor you ever do for yourself. I hope you like a bit of smut, my dear, because this has it. :) Happy Birthday!**

**Thanks to everyone for being supportive of this fic. Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Seventy-two hours later, Sherlock was sprawled on his sofa, burrowing slightly at the comfortable feel of the fabric as Mrs. Hudson tried to cook as quietly as possible in the kitchen. He'd slept, ate, showered, slept some more, and been coddled by Mrs. Hudson while John was at work as if he were a small child. His vision was back to normal, his headache (which he'd endured ever since his attack) was now gone, and he felt very well indeed. He was ready to be out and about on cases again but, maddeningly, nothing was on the website and Lestrade was refusing to give him anything until the previous case had been all wrapped up. John was insisting he needed to "take it easy" and any and all attempts at seducing the doctor had failed miserably.

Sherlock shifted restlessly on the sofa and tried to keep his mind away from what _in particular_ John could be doing to keep his mind from boredom if he weren't allowed cases.

"You need to eat more, Sherlock. You'll never get better at this rate." Mrs. Hudson wheedled, entering the sitting room with a plate piled high with roast and potatoes. The refrigerator was already well-stocked with her cooking, which had pleased John immensely, but Sherlock was less than enthused. It seemed that being abducted and going missing for a very brief time correlated with increased attentiveness and excessive displays of affection, as well as supposedly eating enough for three people.

"No, thank you." Sherlock said as politely as he could manage, not wanting to hurt Mrs. Hudson's feelings (he still felt rather badly for the way she had cried when she'd seen him after the hospital, because really, the entire incident hadn't been that serious) and forced a well-mannered smile.

Mrs. Hudson's chin wobbled slightly.

* * *

Sherlock finished off the plate of roast under the beaming countenance of his landlady as they watched daytime crap telly. Mrs. Hudson shushed him when he started deducing the people on screen, something John would never do, and informed him that "a watched pot never boils" when she caught him staring at the clock, correcting deducing that he was waiting on John to get home.

When John _finally_ arrived home, Mrs. Hudson left, patting Sherlock's cheek in an infuriating way and waved at John who smiled and thanked her for watching Sherlock for him. Sherlock flung himself back on the sofa and pouted at this cavalier treatment of his person. He was an adult for fucks sake, not a bloody invalid.

He still accepted a cup of tea from John and pouted slightly when John didn't ask him if he'd eaten or not. It was almost as if John didn't even care- and he was _supposed_ to be his doctor.

"I've already eaten today, John." Sherlock said pointedly, as John made his way back to the kitchen when the microwave dinged, signaling that his own food was ready to eat.

"Good for you." John said mildly, striding back into the sitting room with his meal.

It was silent in the flat as John ate and Sherlock sipped his tea. It was nice, neither having to entertain the other to be happy, and Sherlock was slowly relaxing when-

"Are you ready to talk about what happened?" John asked, putting aside his plate, surprising Sherlock only briefly before he recovered.

"Talk about what?" Sherlock asked, knowing full well to what John was referring but hoping if he pretended not to John would drop it.

"Our misunderstanding which led to you being attacked and abducted, Sherlock."

"We've already talked about it." Sherlock responded promptly, closing his eyes, effectively, at least he thought, ending the conversation.

He heard John sigh. "No, we haven't. We need to talk this out so it doesn't happen again. If we're going to be in a relationship and make it work, we have to _talk_. Couples talk about things."

"Dull."

"No, _not dull_, Sherlock!" John replied angrily and Sherlock's eyes opened to stare at him. "It's not _dull_ to be in a healthy, normally functioning relationship where you _talk_ to me when there's a problem. I'm not a…a mind-reader who can deduce what's wrong-"

"I don't _mind read_, John. You should know such things only exist in science fiction and in the over-active imaginations of a gullible populace who want to believe in a higher plane. I simply observe and reach logical conclusions."

John took a deep breath to gain control of himself while Sherlock's eyes did a slow sweep of his body, deducing him in a way he knew he hated. John was already on-edge and Sherlock knew he had been waiting until he was feeling better to bring this up again. Now, he wished he'd faked being sick a while longer. Talking about _feelings_ was so tedious and agonizing.

"If we don't talk things out we'll always be having these misunderstandings and you'll always be-…misunderstanding me."

"You're being repetitive." Sherlock replied dismissively, closing his eyes again and effectively ignoring John and what he was trying to say.

John, disheartened, collapsed back into his chair and leaned his head back, defeated, realizing he and Sherlock would never just _talk_ to each other and explain things. He saw a future of misunderstandings over inane little things that could be solved with just a few words- but no. That was too much to ask the world's only consulting detective.

He supposed he should've expected this. Sherlock wasn't great with handling his own emotions- the incident when he first discovered he loved John spoke volumes on that score- and he no doubt didn't want to talk about them. Maybe it made him feel awkward, self-conscious, and John wracked his brain trying to think of a low-stress way to help encourage Sherlock to talk about what he was feeling. Just _talk_. Maybe…if he could find a way…there was still hope…

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over at John. "We need to talk" sounded like a line from a bad sitcom and Sherlock refused to pander. They had resolved what had gone wrong between them at the crime scene and nothing was wrong now. Why did John insist on continually bringing it up? Sherlock was prepared to dismiss the whole thing and move on but…it was still obviously important to John. He was supposed to take into account things that were important to John and, if he were able, oblige him. If this was what it was…

Sherlock sucked in a deep, deep breath that seemed intended to pull all the available oxygen from the room, then spoke. "I disliked the way you acted."

John raised his head and opened his eyes, blinking in surprise, hardly able to believe his ears but knowing it was unwise to ask Sherlock to repeat himself, _especially_ in this instance. Sherlock still sat on the sofa, straight backed and rigid, his eyes closed and fingers pressed beneath his chin.

"How did I act?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he rolled them in exasperation, drawing in another deep breath, still not looking at John. "When I posted the photo on your blog you reacted with anger, embarrassment, irritation. A great sense of shame over people's comments when they saw the photo in relation to your sexuality and any sexual acts the two of us did or did not participate in."

"Ok." John stood and strode across the room, stopping in front of Sherlock and staring down at him. "What else?"

"Really, John, must we-"

"_Yes_." John straddled Sherlock's lap, knees to either side of Sherlock's thighs, and ran his fingers through the riot of curls, careful not to touch his still sensitive wound. Sherlock's lips parted and his eyes strayed down to John's mouth. John watched his pupils dilate and knew he was on the right track. "Tell me what else. What else did I do that bothered you?"

"You withdrew for exactly 5 hours and 15 minutes before you were willing to talk to me again. Even afterwards, you were distracted, pensive. You read the blog comments daily and thought of them, agonized over them. You were embarrassed when we were together at crime scenes. I didn't like it."

"I'm sure not. Those were brilliant observations. _Incorrect_, but still brilliant. Why did you think I was embarrassed?" John asked, leaning down to kiss the side of Sherlock's neck and felt the pulse beneath his lips pick up as Sherlock's hands came up to splay over John's jean-clad thighs.

"You blushed. Awkward shifting from foot to foot, increased heart rate, easily angered, rapid eye movement, too much white showing. Your hands would ball into fists when you heard the comments, lips thinned down, face closed off." Sherlock rattled off his deductions in a quick voice as John licked at the now racing pulse at his neck, making Sherlock shudder, his head falling back to give John more access.

"And that made you reach the conclusion that…?"

"You were ashamed of me. You regretted our relationship and wanted out."

"When have I ever been ashamed of you?" John asked mildly, ghosting his lips up the smooth column of Sherlock's neck and flicking his earlobe with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock shuddered again, his back arching slightly.

"Never." He finally responded breathily, disbelief written in his voice even as he knew his words to be true. His hands now clutched at John's thighs, fingernails digging in slightly, making John squirm.

"Amazing deduction." John murmured, drawing Sherlock's earlobe into his mouth and sucking. Sherlock arched beautifully beneath him and John teased him, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin and biting gently. Sherlock gasped and John bit harder before releasing him and running his tongue along the shell of Sherlock's ear.

"Now it's my turn to talk." He whispered, licking his ear again.

Sherlock huffed and would've responded, tried to prevent John from _talking_ when they could be doing other, better things since apparently John now thought he was healed enough- but John kissed him, silencing his protests by forcefully shoving his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and battling with his for dominance. Sherlock responded, tangling his tongue with John's and moaning happily, realizing just how much he'd missed their intimacy over the last few days. And not just for sex, which was surprising. Sherlock wound his arms around John and tried to pull him closer, his hips raising off the sofa, needing contact, but John was adamant and pulled away.

"I've never been ashamed of you. You're the best thing in my life, Sherlock." John said, kissing his way down Sherlock's chin. Sherlock obligingly tipped his head back again and John bit his lip to keep his smile in check. "You know, you were the one who originally didn't want me posting anything about our relationship on my blog. You were very offended about the idea, if I remember. And I respected that. It wasn't that I was ashamed of _you_. I don't like people we see on a daily basis- even complete strangers- knowing what I look like after shagging you. I don't like them having-"John nipped at Sherlock's neck and listened to the genius's breath catch in his throat- "first-hand knowledge that we're shagging. I didn't like them speculating who's top or bottom or sideways or whatever the fuck we want to do. That part of our life is _private_…it's just meant for me and you. I don't want to share that with countless people on my blog. None of that means that I'm ashamed of _you_. Why did you do it anyway? The picture."

"I…"Sherlock frowned and shook his head, seemingly perplexed, having lost his train of thought as John's lips had descended downward. John nipped harder on his neck and Sherlock gasped, his hips thrusting up. "_Please_."

He bit his lip quickly, ashamed, but John grinned and licked his Adam's apple in praise.

"You're _incredible_. Tell me, why did you do it? Your wonderful, brilliant, beautiful brain knows. Enlighten me with your genius." He teased.

"I wanted everyone to know…know you're mine." Sherlock confessed in a ragged voice, breath coming quicker. "I knew you would make us wait to tell people and I didn't want to…didn't want to wait. I didn't want to hide it."

"_Fantastic_." John praised, bringing his lips back up and capturing Sherlock's sweetly, carding his fingers gently through Sherlock's hair and tipping his head back. Sherlock responded earnestly, grasping John to him and John let him. His hands were insistent at John's back, pressing him closer and moaning as John rubbed his hard cock against Sherlock's stomach.

"So…you wanted people to know you were mine?" John asked, his voice low and Sherlock stared up at him, liking this rather dominating side of John.

"Yes." Sherlock replied promptly, hoping he'd be rewarded for his candidness. Really, if this was how John reacted when they talked about "feelings," Sherlock decided he'd have them more often. If he were open enough, he may even get John on his knees for him in some previously off-limits location. Sherlock's mind began formulating _exactly_ what he'd have to say in order to achieve this when John bent down and kissed his neck again.

"Mm…so…how do I convince people you're mine…and make sure you realize I'm not ashamed of you?" John posed this as a question but Sherlock could tell from his tone of voice that John had an idea of what he would do…and Sherlock didn't know what he had planned.

The muscles in his stomach clenched as his desire skyrocketed.

John grinned wickedly before he swooped down- Sherlock's realized what he was about to do a split second before he gently bit the side of his neck. Sherlock gasped and threaded his fingers through John's hair, holding him tighter and encouraging him to bite harder, arching beneath him, thrusting his hips up and rubbing against him. John followed Sherlock's not-so-subtle commands and sucked the skin into his mouth, scraping his teeth across it, listening to the nonsense sounds that were falling incessantly from Sherlock's lips, unable to keep his writhing body still beneath John's ministrations.

Sherlock was lost in a sea of sensation, his entire focus narrowing down to that small bit of skin that was being sucked, bitten, steadily drawn into the slick, wonderful heat of John's mouth. The sharp, pleasant sting of John's teeth as he bit him harder, leaving imprints in his skin that Sherlock knew, disappointed, would eventually fade but would be perfect indentations when John pulled away that Sherlock could run his fingertips over and _feel_. Elusive, beautiful, tangible proof of what John had done. The quick, heated flick of John's tongue, an attempt at soothing the hurt but really heightening the sensation of the surrounding flesh that was held in the grasp of teeth, making it pulse in a stunning agony that had Sherlock thrusting up again and again, seeking contact with his lover, desperate to be touched.

"_Please_, _John_, please." Sherlock gasped and John made to pull away, his teeth loosening, and Sherlock keened and followed the motion, keeping John attached to him. John chuckled with Sherlock still in his mouth, the vibrations translating to his aching skin and eliciting a shiver of ecstasy.

Finally, John pulled away with a wet, filthy sound and sat back on Sherlock's knees to admire his work. "There. Now people know you're mine."

Sherlock raised a shaking hand to the damp, pulsing place on his neck that throbbed in a scintillating pain. It was a base, primitive way to let others know that someone was yours and the idea that John had done that to him… It was _animal_, a way of marking one's territory and it said something not good about their relationship that they felt compelled to mark each other in such ways- something about trust and perhaps something about respect for each other or the lack thereof. Sherlock wasn't a possession and neither was John but they liked showing that they possessed the other. It was all probably more than a bit not good but Sherlock really didn't care about the implications and suggestions and nuances of the act and he could tell John hadn't even _thought_ about what they did to each other in such a way.

John raised his eyebrow, a smile playing about his lips, asking a question that Sherlock answered with a short nod. His eyes lit up as he moved to the other side of Sherlock's neck, softly tilting Sherlock's head to the side, and repeating the motion, sucking the skin hard into his mouth and swiping his tongue over it before biting sharply, causing Sherlock to arch and yelp beneath him, trying and failing to keep the moans and half-formed words behind his lips. The pleasure was sharper this time. He was already high on arousal from the pleasurable pain of the first mark and the more John lapped and sucked and bit the harder Sherlock's cock got.

"_Haangh_…_John_…yes…God- ah! Hnng…_Ngggh_…Jo-ohn…._pleassssse_." Sherlock knew he wasn't making any sense with what he was saying but John seemed to understand because he hummed happily and ran his hand down Sherlock's chest, across his stomach, and grasped his erection through his trousers.

Sherlock's vision went fuzzy.

"Now you'll know I'm not ashamed of you." John whispered against Sherlock's neck before ever-so-gently kissing the new mark, then moving over and kissing the other, his hand still undulating against Sherlock's cock in a maddeningly slow way.

John pulled further away to see Sherlock's eyes half-lidded, blown with arousal and dark, watching him. Sherlock tugged him down, rolling his hips against him in a way that made his intentions clear. John took his hand away and _laughed_- and Sherlock lost it.

Down on the sofa John was flung and Sherlock was over him, ripping clothes off, not caring when John laughingly protested as his buttons pinged onto the floor. Sherlock didn't manage to pull John's jeans down all the way- as soon as his erection sprang free Sherlock's mouth engulfed it, making John shout in surprise and buck up into his mouth.

Sherlock, with another swipe of his tongue along John's cock, pulled away and plucked a bottle of lube from between the sofa cushions. John yanked Sherlock's pants and trousers down and Sherlock, kicking himself free of the restraining material, poured enough lube over his fingers and reached back, quickly readying himself. He watched as John looked both shocked and incredibly aroused, his cock jumping, pulsing, when he realized what Sherlock was doing to himself.

He ran his hands all over Sherlock's thighs, his stomach, his chest, before stroking Sherlock's cock, but Sherlock batted his hands away, afraid he'd come before they even began. John, forced into inactivity, snatched the bottle of lube from Sherlock and liberally coated himself with it, finishing just in time for Sherlock to impatiently knock his hands aside, raise up, position himself, then lower himself…slowly…slowly…sinking down on John's cock, his mouth open in a soundless moan, eyes closing at the almost too much pleasure.

"Oh, _fuck_, Sherlock." John moaned, gripping Sherlock's hips with a bruising pressure that Sherlock welcomed, that only heightened the already amazing, endorphin fueled high he was riding.

Sherlock set a very fast, bruising pace which John had no objections to. His hands were splayed on Sherlock's hips, urging him faster, while his own hips snapped up to seat himself deeper, making them both groan at the feeling. It was frenzied and filthy. The sound of flesh smacking into flesh a constant rhythm, the slick sounds of skin sliding through lube and sweat, gorgeous moans and half-screams falling from Sherlock's lips and answering curses and pleas coming from John's.

John watched, his eyes slitted in building pleasure, as Sherlock reached up and touched the spectacularly colored marks on his neck, gasping at the sensitivity, tracing the teeth marks with his fingernails. Sherlock's eyes opened, shocked, as he came, still touching his neck, and John wasn't far behind, pulling Sherlock down for a kiss as his orgasm tore through him, muffling his moans as he bit Sherlock's lips possessively.

When it was over, Sherlock slumped atop him, resting his forehead against John's and breathing deeply, his body shaking slightly from the aftershocks. His entire body was pulsing, the feeling radiating from particular points, and he felt slightly used…but in the best possible way.

"We really need a shower." John said, making no motion to move. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him tighter.

"Yes." Sherlock panted, sinking closer to John willingly.

"Just because we fight doesn't mean our relationship's over." John said lazily, just for clarification. He didn't think they'd covered this point earlier but he wanted to be sure.

Sherlock grunted in assent.

"If that were the case we'd never be together."

"Don't attempt humor after sex, John. It ruins the effect."

John made a noise in agreement and they stayed together for another minute before Sherlock raised himself up, kissing John deeply, grimacing at the feeling of the dried semen on his stomach.

"Joining me?" he asked, as he stood up and smirked at John, who was lying back on the sofa looking thoroughly fucked and debauched, his jeans and pants still around his knees.

"Maybe later." John said lazily, running an appreciative eye over Sherlock's body, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

"Come." Sherlock compelled, brushing his lips over John's. "I don't think we've finished our discussion."

* * *

**Well, they sort of resolved everything, hmm?**


	9. Chapter 9

**A thousand apologies for leaving this story without an update for so very long. I've started a few other projects and this story slipped down the list of priorities. I'm back, though, and with many more chapters ready to come! :)**

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

It didn't take John long to figure out he'd created a monster.

Sherlock began "experiencing feelings" that needed to "be discussed" at an alarming rate and really, in the end, John only had himself to blame. He should have _known_ that conditioning Sherlock to expect sex and orgasms for talking about his feelings was a bad idea, but at the time it'd just seemed like a good idea and…well…it wasn't like neither of them got anything out of it.

John got to know how Sherlock felt. Sherlock was able to tell John what was bothering him in a low-stress situation. And they _both_ got amazing sex and fantastic orgasms. All in all, there wasn't really all that much to complain about.

Even though sometimes John suspected Sherlock was just making shit up so John would fuck him in increasingly adventurous situations.

For instance, he was almost certain that he hadn't _needed_ to bend Sherlock over Lestrade's desk so the consulting detective could moan something about "colors" and why he'd "never trusted the color pink, not after the case with the cabbie. It's…ah, _yes, John right there_…don't stop!"

When they'd emerged from Lestrade's office, both rather flushed but no one around them the wiser, Sherlock had looked at John and smirked knowingly before leaning over to brush his lips against John's pink cheek.

"See? Never trust the color pink." He'd murmured and John had suddenly wanted to haul him right back into the office…except now it was occupied by Greg and he didn't really want an audience for what he was about to do to Sherlock.

But even knowing that Sherlock was sometimes making things up, John didn't tell him "You know, you don't have to jump me when you want to talk about feelings. We could just _talk_ about it." And the reason for this was something John wasn't proud of, even though he knew it wasn't good. He didn't stop Sherlock because he couldn't help loving it when Sherlock would suddenly assault him in the hallway, or a cab, or down a darkened street, or, memorably, in the deserted section of a library they were doing research in, and whisper in his ear that he _needed_ John and he would find himself tightly pressed to Sherlock, both of them doing unspeakable things to each other.

* * *

A week after the conclusion of the case, John had to attend a formal hearing concerning the two men he'd killed. No charges were officially pressed and it was mainly just for procedure. John wasn't all that concerned, having been assured by Mycroft earlier in the week that he wouldn't face prison time.

"How can you know?" John had asked and been given a Look by the elder Holmes that made him regret asking.

"This is not the first time you've killed someone for my brother, Doctor Watson, and I doubt it will be the last. Although, this was the first time doing so in front of uniformed police officers."

"Well, can't have you getting bored on the job." John had replied sarcastically, but when Mycroft was leaving he'd extended his hand. "Thanks, Mycroft. Seriously."

"Dear me, no need to get so emotional." Mycroft had brushed past him with a sardonic smirk, leaving John where he had been at the first- hating Mycroft and not feeling bad about it. Thank God. He'd hate to feel indebted to the arrogant prick.

Both Lestrade and Sherlock gave statements in John's defense but neither were the best witnesses he could have hoped for. Sherlock's usually sharp memory was a bit blurred because of his concussion concerning the events of that night but he was able to marshal a satisfactory statement and leave no one in any doubt that John had been forced to act in order to protect him. His memory loss and recollection of how brutally he had been treated even worked in his favor as he talked about the way he had been assaulted, earning John more and more support as he painted a picture of two desperate, crazed men who had already harmed so many and who had threatened to kill again.

When Sherlock stepped down, John breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't that he'd been worried about Sherlock's statement or even about being convicted of murder. He'd been concerned that Sherlock, pushed to the breaking point by the "gross incompetence" of the judge and attorneys present, wouldn't be able to resist deducing them. He didn't look forward to the idea of having to bail Sherlock out- again.

John shouldn't have worried, though. Since it was for his boyfriend and not some random stranger he didn't care about, Sherlock minded his tongue. It was still a close thing by the time he got off the stand after having to listen to so many horribly phrased and ridiculous questions. He was disgusted with what the justice system in England was coming to.

Lestrade reluctantly gave his testimony in John's defense and then, afterwards, went to a pub to drink and empty his head of what had happened and what he was beginning to suspect may also have happened in the past. While Lestrade was glad Sherlock was safe and hadn't been injured too badly and had been rescued in the nick of time, seeing the cold way John had dispatched the last man, unnecessarily and completely without compunction, stuck with him. It flew in the face of what Lestrade thought was right and just- citizens didn't go around dispensing justice on their own as John had done. He hadn't _had_ to shoot the last man again. He'd already been down, injured, and could have provided valuable statements. Lestrade was torn, discomfited, but kept silent and warred internally with himself.

John, standing to the side and watching Lestrade give his statement, knew Lestrade's feelings towards him had changed. There was something in the Detective Inspector's eyes now, whenever he looked at John, which let John know he disapproved, that he had seen a flash of the darkness in the ex-soldier he previously hadn't known existed, or if he _had known_ existed had deluded himself into thinking that no, the cheerful smiling face of John Watson hid no demons. John didn't like knowing Lestrade thought less of him, maybe even possibly thought he wasn't one of the "good guys" anymore, but honestly felt no remorse for what he'd done. If put in the same situation, he'd do it again in a heartbeat. He only felt lucky that Lestrade hadn't linked him to any other shootings that had taken place surrounding Sherlock.

When the judge, after more statements were given, finally declared John acquitted of any and all wrongdoing and signaled the session at an end, John felt himself relax. Well, at least all this was over. He walked forward to shake hands and smile but was intercepted by Sherlock who grabbed his arm and steered him quickly from the room.

"Sherlock- what is it?" John asked, following along but received no answer.

Once they were out of the court room, Sherlock released him and started striding quickly down the hall, leaving John to follow after him as fast as he could.

Sherlock was quiet as they walked, his face intent, brow furrowed. He led them down another hallway, then another, away from the crowd, and then started up a flight of stairs.

"Sherlock…where are we going? The exit's that way." John paused at the bottom and looked up at Sherlock, who gazed down at him with a serious expression.

"We have business upstairs." Sherlock responded and kept climbing, leaving John to sigh and follow, wondering what case Sherlock had taken this time. He'd seen nothing on the website but then, he hadn't checked that morning, too busy being slightly nervous about his day in court.

It was only when they had walked to the end of a deserted hallway upstairs and Sherlock bent to fiddle with the doorknob that John became suspicious.

"_What are you doing_?" He hissed, eyes widening when he saw the lock pick Sherlock was wielding with such accuracy. He quickly glanced around to make sure they weren't being observed and turned back to Sherlock, who'd managed to open the door and, without saying a word, yanked John through.

They were in a large office, nicely fitted out, and thankfully currently vacant. John got an impression of a lot of leather upholstery and sunlight streaming into the room before Sherlock was forcing him roughly against the door. John hissed as his back hit the unyielding wood and then Sherlock was kissing him. John gasped in surprise and Sherlock took the opportunity to delve into John's mouth, teasing his tongue with his own, making John moan at the unexpected contact, then sucking on it provocatively. John tried to clutch Sherlock to him but the infuriating man pulled away and confessed, in a hurried, heated voice, that he was experiencing feelings and needed to discuss them. Right away.

"What- _here_?" John panted, frowning up at him and then glancing around at the deserted-for-the-moment-but-for-how-much-longer office. "Not really…_private_…Look, tell me, tell me when we get back to the flat. I _want_ to hear, Sherlock, I really do, just, just not here."

He turned around, intent on opening the door, but long, insistent hands were spinning him around, again pinning him, and a long, hard body was pressed against him. John groaned when he felt Sherlock's erection through his trousers, heavy against his hip, and dragged his eyes up in surprise. Sherlock's eyes were large and dark, dilated alarmingly and John could feel his increased breathing against his cheek.

"_Please_, John." He whispered throatily, ducking down to press kisses along John's jawline, sucking briefly but without intention. John had already adamantly refused any more marks on his body. He didn't relish the idea of them looking like a matched set of debauchery, as the marks he'd placed on Sherlock's neck earlier in the week were still visible, prominent red and purple reminders of ownership. He irrationally felt like fucking him every time he glimpsed them.

"We could get caught." John protested weakly between moans as Sherlock began grinding against him. "_Sherlock_- we could go to jail for this."

"_Yes_, John." Sherlock said, as if John had just made an incredibly clever deduction and John heard the lock _snick_ as Sherlock turned it behind him.

Later, John couldn't exactly recall how he found himself on his knees, vigorously sucking Sherlock as the man above him spoke at a lightning fast pace. To be honest, John missed most of what Sherlock was saying, finding it incredibly hard to concentrate. The thrill of doing _this_ in someone's office, hearing voices going up and down the hallway outside, hoping they didn't have a camera set up somewhere, and also feeling himself growing unbearably hard in his pants made listening to his boyfriend somewhat difficult. The idea that _they could get caught at any moment_ made adrenaline sing through his veins and sharpened everything he was feeling exquisitely. Almost without thinking, John's hips began thrusting forward slightly, moving in tandem to what he was doing to Sherlock, and he felt his arousal spike as his cock pressed against the fabric of his trousers.

Sherlock paused in his whispered confessions and looked down when he felt John move. He gasped as he watched John thrust, bucking into John's mouth. John brought his hands up to pin Sherlock's hips to the door so he wouldn't be choked and redoubled his efforts.

Sherlock's words began to become much more breathy and ragged as he gasped out shortened sentences.

"Oh, god…_John_…Has anyone ever told you…_ah_...you have unhealthy murderous tendencies? It's so arousing….is it supposed to be arousing? Standing there in court….listening to all those accounts….of what you did…made me want…want…It's your face….when you…oh, fuck, John, _faster_, please, faster….your face shows…killer rage…and then….your gun…it's…it's…"

John never got to find out exactly what his gun was as Sherlock bucked again and came. John swallowed and gentled his attentions until he was pushed away and unceremoniously hauled up. Sherlock pushed him against the door, and knelt at his feet, tugging John's trousers and pants to mid-thigh on his way down. John muffled a curse as Sherlock took him in his mouth without preamble and John bit down hard on his lower lip to keep from moaning as he watched Sherlock on his knees.

John didn't know what to do with his hands. It was almost a requirement that he had to grasp something while Sherlock did this, fist something with his hands to center himself as his pleasure spiraled higher and higher with every motion of Sherlock's head. He knew gripping Sherlock's curls was off-limits but usually, when Sherlock gave him a blow-job, John could grip the sofa, or the sheets, or the edge of the table. Now, he grabbed onto the leg of his trousers, knowing they'd be hopelessly creased by the end of this but hopefully no one they'd pass would be able to tell why.

"Sher-….Sherlock, I'm close." John managed to squeak out some short minutes later, his voice ridiculously high, expecting Sherlock to pull away and finish him with his hand as he always did.

Sherlock instead hollowed his cheeks and gave another suck, going down all the way until John felt him bump the back of his throat.

John gave a disbelieving, choked gasp and then he was coming, eyes wide, hands balled into fists as he clutched his trousers, a distant part of his mind hoping he didn't tear them. Each pulse of his orgasm was almost painfully pleasurable and he watched Sherlock stare up at him, eyes intent and deducing, his throat moving, swallowing, until John had to break eye contact, letting his head fall back against the door.

John's knees were shaking so badly he was afraid he wouldn't be able to support himself as Sherlock stood up and smoothed down the front of his jacket, straightening his cuffs and shaking out the legs of his trousers. He gasped in surprise when John pulled him close and kissed him, his tongue sweeping into Sherlock's mouth, tasting himself in that infuriating mouth and moaning at the feeling.

"You didn't have to do that," John said breathlessly as he pulled away.

Sherlock shrugged and opened his mouth-

They both tensed at the sound of a key being inserted into the lock and John scrambled to pull up his trousers and fasten them, stepping away from the door just as it opened and a short, overweight man entered, yelping in surprise when he found two men in his locked office.

"Good afternoon." Sherlock nodded and grabbed John's arm, pulling him from the room before calling over his shoulder. "Incidentally, you may want to investigate your secretary. She's sleeping with your wife."

* * *

"You couldn't have just let it go?" John asked, as he and Sherlock climbed the stairs to their flat a few hours later. "We could've gotten away if you hadn't goaded him-"

"I thought he'd want to know. Wasn't that the best thing to do?"

"_No_, Sherlock, just _walking away_ would've been the best thing to do. Now we've got to go to court again-"

Sherlock snorted and opened their door. "Those charges won't stick, John. Besides, what are _you_ doing here?"

John glanced around Sherlock to find Mycroft, coolly sitting in his armchair and sipping tea, looking particularly smug.

"It's nice to see you too, brother. I can see your day in court went…_well_." Mycroft's eyes lingered on the wrinkled fabric of John's trousers and he arched an eyebrow. John felt himself flush but squared his shoulders, refusing to be embarrassed about what had happened.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked coldly, folding himself onto the sofa and, just like that, John remembered their having sex on that same sofa and once again his face flamed with color.

"I have a case for you."


End file.
